“Miss Clare has very strong opinions of her own, Geoffrey,”
she said—“She is not as much captivated by Prince Rimânez as most people are,—in fact, she has just confided to me that she does not quite like him.”
Mavis blushed, but her eyes met mine with fearless candour.
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“It is wrong to say what one thinks, I know,—” she murmured in somewhat troubled accents—“And it is a dreadful fault of mine. Please forgive me Mr Tempest! You tell me the prince is your greatest friend,—and I assure you I was immensely impressed by his appearance when I first saw him, ... but afterwards, ... after I had studied him a little, the conviction was borne in upon me that he was not altogether what he seemed.”
“That is exactly what he says of himself,”—I answered, laughing a little—“He has a mystery I believe,—and he has promised to clear it up for me some day. But I’m sorry you don’t like him, Miss Clare,—for he likes you.”
“Perhaps when I meet him again my ideas may be different”—said Mavis gently—“at present, ... well,—do not let us talk of it any more,—indeed I feel I have been very rude to express any opinion at all concerning one for whom you and Lady Sibyl have so great a regard. But somehow I seemed impelled, almost against my will, to say what I did just now.”
Her soft eyes looked pained and puzzled, and to relieve her and change the subject, I asked if she was writing anything new.
“Oh yes,”—she replied—“It would never do for me to be idle. The public are very kind to me,—and no sooner have they read one thing of mine than they clamour for another, so I am kept very busy.”
“And what of the critics?” I asked, with a good deal of curiosity.
She laughed.