Galorey remained, smoking, and the duchess continued her notes in silence, cooling down at her desk. Her companion knew her too well to speak to her until she had herself in hand, and when finally she took up her pen and turned about, she appeared conscious for the first of his presence.
“Here still!” she exclaimed.
“I thought I might do for a safety valve, Lily. You could let some of your anger out on me.”
The duchess left her desk and came over to him.
“I expect you despise me thoroughly, don’t you, Gordon?”
They had not been alone together since her engagement to Blair, for she had taken pains to avoid every opportunity for a tête-à-tête.
“Despise you?” he repeated gently. “It’s awfully hard, isn’t it, for a chap like me to despise anybody? We’re none of us used to the best quality of behavior, you know, my dear girl.”
“Don’t talk rot, Gordon,” she murmured.
“You didn’t ask my advice,” he continued, “but I don’t hesitate to tell you that I have done everything I could to save the boy.”
She accepted this philosophically. “Oh, I knew you would; I quite expected it, but—” and in the look she threw at him there was more liking than resentment—“I knew you, too; you couldn’t go very far, my dear fellow.”