His eyes seemed to melt at the championing kindness of her tone—then froze again.
“The oppressed always appeal to the romantic. But you want to make sure of the merits of the oppressed. Some other time, Miss Grant. I enjoyed my walk.”
He was gone immediately and Horatia flung furniture and rugs into place until her anger was cooled. Grace came in half an hour later to find things in amazing order.
“You’ve done everything.”
“I wanted to work,” answered Horatia, briefly.
And then——
“Look here, do I have to have a chaperon every time I want a man to come up here? Do you?”
Grace pulled off her gloves, sat down on the sofa and surveyed the room and the question calmly. She was a calm person, who balanced an unshocked acceptance of any laxity or scandal in the world of literature against an equally uncomplaining acceptance of the restraints of the world of action. And she seemed fond of Horatia, though Horatia had a feeling of getting acquainted only up to a certain point.
“I suppose not,” Grace said slowly. “People may be a little vicious in their talk if you’re not somewhat circumspect. I wouldn’t advise sessions with married men—or ones with highly colored reputations——”
“What does it matter what people say?” urged Horatia.