"Of course. By the way," he added, as Arnim slipped into the overcoat which the orderly had brought him, "that is a pretty little English girl your aunt has picked up. I met her the last time I was at the house. What's her name?"
"You are probably referring to Miss Ingestre."
"Ingestre? Well, she's a pretty little piece of goods, anyhow—though not particularly friendly." He threw back his head and laughed, as though at some amusing reminiscence. "Imagine: I had just settled myself down to a comfortable tête-à-tête, when she got up and bolted—straight out of the room like a young fury. I was rather taken aback until I consoled myself with the reflection that all English people are mad—even the pretty ones."
During his recital a sudden light of comprehension flashed over Arnim's face. He half smiled, but the smile was indefinably sarcastic.
"No doubt Miss Ingestre had her good reasons for interrupting your comfortable tête-à-tête," he observed. "Though English people may suffer from madness, there is usually method in it."
"No doubt she had her good reasons for her return five minutes later," was the retort. "There was method in that madness, at any rate."
The two men looked each other straight in the eyes. Arnim's hand rested on his sword-hilt, and the smile had died away from his lips.
"Perhaps I ought to remind you that Miss Ingestre is my aunt's guest, and therefore under my protection," he said slowly.
"The reminder is quite unnecessary," the dragoon returned with perfect sang-froid. "I meant no offence either to you or Miss Ingestre; and poaching is, anyhow, not one of my vices."
Arnim hesitated an instant, then, with a curt bow, he slipped his arm through that of the officer standing beside him.