He nodded over his shoe leather. “So I supposed.”
“That was Mr. Germain—you know——”
“I know. I recognized him. I had been to reconnoitre the Park——”
She could not, perhaps, have accounted to herself for her next question. “Do you like Miss de Speyne?”
He frankly considered it for a while, looking at the questioner without discomfort—to himself at least. “Yes. Yes, I think I do. She’s a fine young woman and she’s simple. She’s herself. Yes, I like her very much. She can paint flowers—nothing else. But she paints flowers well.” So much for the Honourable Hertha de Speyne.
“May I sit down?” Mary was quite at her ease again. He jumped up with apologies, and brought her cushions. Bingo came up, wagging his back, and, being caressed, sat up stiffly beneath her hand. She watched her friend fill his pipe and collected herself for her affair. Then she lowered her eyes, and began, hardening her voice.
“I came because I wanted your opinion, as I hoped—I mean as I thought I possibly might. You remember that I said I should like to talk to you? Well, I didn’t know then—for certain—what I should have to say. But—” She stopped there.
“But now you do? Is that it?”
“Yes. Shall you think it strange of me?”
“I don’t know—but it’s very unlikely. If I do I’ll tell you. Go on.”