“But it was a mistake, you said,” she replied, with a flash of her eyes that seemed to mean much.
“A mistake, of course,” I said. “And now let us take a cab and have some lunch.”
She appeared a little surprised at this bold suggestion, and recollecting that an appearance of propriety is very rigorously observed in England, often where one would least expect it, I modified my élan to a more formal gallantry, and very quickly persuaded her to accompany me to the most fashionable restaurant in Piccadilly.
Even then, though she was generous of her smiles and those flashing glances that I could well imagine kindling the gallant heart of General Sholto, and though her talk was dashed with slang and marked with a straightforward freedom, yet she always maintained a sufficient dignity to check any too presumptuous advances. But by this time all compunction for my gallant neighbor had vanished in the delights of Miss Kerry's society, and I was not to be balked so easily.
“To-night I wish you to do me a favor,” I said, earnestly.
“Yes? What is it?” she smiled.
“I have a box at the Gaiety Theatre, and I should like a friend to dine with me first, and then see the play.”
As a matter of fact the box was not yet taken, but how was she to know that?
“And I am to be the friend?” she asked.
“If you will be so kind?”