"At last, old friend," said Mary to John Marston. "And I have been watching for you so long. I was afraid that the time would come for the children to go to bed, and that you would never come and speak to me."
"Lord Hainault and I were talking politics," said Marston. "That is why I did not come."
"Men must talk politics, I suppose," said Mary. "But I wish you had come while my cousin was here. He is so charming. You will like him."
"He seems to be a capital fellow," said Marston.
"Indeed he is," said Mary. "He is really the most lovable creature I have met for a long time. If you would take him up, and be kind to him, and show him life, from the side from which you see it, you would be doing a good work; and you would be obliging me. And I know, my dear friend, that you like to oblige me."
"Miss Corby, you know that I would die for you."
"I know it. Who better? It puzzles me to know what I have done to earn such kindness from you. But there it is. You will be kind to him."
Marston was partly pleased and partly disappointed by this conversation. Would you like to guess why? Yes. Then I will leave you to do so, and save myself half a page of writing.
Only saying this, for the benefit of inexperienced novel-readers, that he was glad to hear her talk in that free and easy manner about her cousin; but would have been glad if she had not talked in that free and easy manner to himself. Nevertheless, there was evidently no harm done as yet. That was a great cause of congratulation; there was time yet.
Gus and Flora went over to Lady Ascot. Lady Ascot said, "My dears, is it not near bed-time?" just by way of opening the conversation—nothing more.