The sun was low when she got up, saying that she must go home. It was discovered to be seven o’clock. “Why,” she cried, “they had forgotten to have any tea!”
“Poor girl! Will you have some now?”
“No, no. I don’t want it. But I must go. Will you come with me? Or are you engaged?”
“You know I’m never engaged. I shall come with you, of course. Will you drive?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s too quick. Let’s walk over the grass. It’s no distance.”
She talked to him of her friends—of all her friends but Duplessis. This he observed. Did he know Mr. Horace Wing? By repute only, it seemed. He could be seen in photograph shops—a very “pretty fellow”; too pretty, Palmer Lovell? Unlicked, he judged. Then he tried her. “I know young Bramleigh,” he said with one of his straight looks into the deep of you. “I met him yesterday.”
She received the shock unfaltering. “Lord Bramleigh? I hardly know him.” He had failed. Lord Kesteven—for she went on blandly with her list—he had never heard of. He asked “What he did?” and made her open her eyes. “Do!” she said, with a comical air of being shocked. “He’s a Marquis.” This made Senhouse perfectly happy, but he apologized for laughing. “I’ve nothing against him, you know. I believe it’s an honest calling. Does he do nothing else but be a kind marquis to you?”
She affected scorn. “He’s an Ambassador—in Paris. I hope that’s honest enough for you.”
“I hope so, too,” said Senhouse, “but I’d rather be a marquis. Is he your friend?”
“He says so. I think he means to be.” All of a sudden she leaned towards him; he felt her urgency. “You are my friend. I have no others. You have promised me your friendship.”