This brought a flush across the ivory pallor of her cheek. “No, no, Higgins keeps them In the next room.” And with an abrupt change of subject she asked: “Is the Duchess of Breakwater very charitable?” And Blair quickly replied:
“Anyhow she wants you to sing for her at a musicale in Park Lane when you’re fit.”
Miss Lane gave a soft little giggle. “Is that what you call being charitable?”
Dan blushed crimson and exclaimed: “Well, hardly!”
“Did you come here to ask me that?”
“I came to tell you about ‘our mutual poor.’ You’ll let me call them that, won’t you, because I happened to be in your dressing-room when they struck their vein?”
Miss Lane had drawn herself up in the corner of the sofa, and sat with her hands clasped around her knees, all swathed around and draped by the knitted shawl, her golden head like a radiant flower, appearing from a bank of snow. Her fragility, her sweetness, her smallness, appealed strongly to the big young fellow, whose heart was warm toward the world, whose ideals were high, and who had the chivalrous longing inherent in all good men to succor, to protect, and above all to adore. No feeling in Dan Blair had been as strong as this, to take her in his arms, to lift her up and carry her away from London and the people who applauded her, from the people that criticized her, and from Poniotowsky.
He was engaged to the Duchess of Breakwater. And as far as his being able to do anything for Letty Lane, he could only offer her this politeness from the woman he was going to marry.
“I never sing out of the theater.” Her profile was to him and she looked steadily across the room. “It’s a perfect fight to get the manager to consent.”