The young lady closed her parasol slowly, and turning, faced the sauntering crowd again.
"Of Sir Richard Calmady, of course," she said.
Her companion did not answer immediately. His eyes pursued a receding carriage far down the string, amid the gaily shifting sunshine and shadow, and the fluttering lace and gray feathers of a woman's bonnet. When he spoke, at last, it was with an unusual trace of feeling.
"After all, you know, there are a good many excuses for Richard Calmady."
"If it comes to that there are a good many excuses for Helen de Vallorbes," Honoria put in quickly.
"For? For?" the young man repeated, relaxing into the blandest of smiles. "Yes, thanks—I see I was right. It was unnecessary to name names.—Oh! undoubtedly, innumerable excuses, and of the most valid description, were they needed—were they not swallowed up in the single, self-evident excuse that the lady you mention is a supremely clever and captivating person."
"You think so?" said Honoria.
"Think so? Show me the man so indifferent to his reputation for taste that he could venture to think otherwise!"
"Still she should have left him alone."—Honoria's indolent, reflective speech took on a peculiar intonation, and she pressed her long-fingered hands together, as though controlling a shudder. "I—I'm ashamed to confess it, I do not like him. But, as I told you, just on that account——"
"Pardon me, on what account?"