“Mr. Sên told me—” Lady Snow began, but she never finished her sentence.
“Was it Sên King-lo you met at Judge Ransome’s?” her husband demanded, putting his glass down untasted. Emma Snow had aroused her husband’s attention at last—very much so.
“Yes—it was,” she announced importantly, “Mr. Sên King-lo. I asked him to call.”
“Good!” said Sir Charles heartily. “I hope he does.”
“Sure to. He promised,” Emma Snow said confidently. Charles had not taken her small news as she’d intended him to, and had hoped that he would. But she was gratified at the mild excitement she’d caused. She’d hoped Charles would be annoyed—but, since he was not, it was the next best thing that he was pleased. It was his indifference that rankled—and indifference was his constant everyday wear.
“He’ll leave his card—some day when he knows you’re out,” their guest observed. “It is one of his affectations. He’s a bit of a jackanapes, if you ask me.” No one had, or had thought of doing so. “And he usually does. It has gone to his chink head the way he’s run after in Washington, D. C.”
Sir Charles Snow crumbled his bread viciously, but he took no other notice, for Reginald de Courcy Seymour Hamilton was their guest—though what possessed Emma to tolerate the fellow, let alone invite him, was more than he could understand.
Lady Snow had her reasons. They were not ungenerous ones—and they were distinctly feminine.
“By the way, Ivy,” she said, “you met Mr. Sên at Miss Townsend’s, he told me.”
“How did you like him, Miss Gilbert?” Hamilton spoke before the girl could answer her cousin.