“It's not a question of danger. It is one of proprieties, if I must put it that way. She is a young woman, hardly more than a girl, and she probably does not realize that being seen in your company so frequently is likely to cause comment and gossip. Her aunt and I realize it, however.”
His expression of surprise was changing to one of languid amusement.
“Really!” he drawled. “By Jove! I say, Knowles, am I such a dangerously fascinating character? You flatter me.”
“I don't know anything concerning your character. I do know that there is gossip. I am not accusing you of anything. I have no doubt you have been merely careless. Your intentions may have been—”
He interrupted me. “My intentions?” he repeated. “My dear fellow, I have no intentions. None whatever concerning your niece, if that is what you mean. She is a jolly pretty girl and jolly good company. I like her and she seems to like me. That is all, upon my word it is.”
He was quite sincere, I was convinced of it. But I had gone too far to back out.
“Then you have been thoughtless—or careless,” I said. “It seems to me that you should have considered her.”
“Considered her! Oh, I say now! Why should I consider her pray?”
“Why shouldn't you? You are much older than she is and a man of the world besides. And you are engaged to be married, or so I am told.”
His smile disappeared.