“I don’t think you would ask me anything really impertinent,” she faltered.
“Not with an impertinent motive, be assured. Well, I must even risk offending you. I want you to tell me frankly what you think of Mr. Sefton.”
At this the pale cheeks flushed, and she looked angry.
“I don’t like him, though he is my father’s friend, and though he is always very kind—obtrusively kind. He has even offered Sophy and me his horses to ride—to have the exclusive use of two of his best hacks, if father would let us ride them; but of course that was out of the question. We could not have accepted such a favour from any one.”
“Not from any one but an affianced lover,” said Vansittart. “Do you know, Miss Marchant, when I first saw you and Mr. Sefton together at the ball I thought you must be engaged.”
“How very foolish of you!”
“He had such an air of taking possession of you, as if he had a superior claim to your attentions.”
“Oh, that is only Mr. Sefton’s masterful way. He cannot forget the extent of his acres or the length of his pedigree.”
“But he seems—always—on such confidential terms with you.”
“I have known him a long time.”