"Don't let's quarrel!" cried Delia, as she stood opposite to him, putting on her gloves. "Don't! Not to-day—not this afternoon! And we're sure to quarrel if we talk about Gertrude."
His indignation broke up in laughter.
"Very well. We won't mention her. Well, but look here—" he pondered—"You must have somebody. I would propose that Alice should come and keep you company, but I left her in bed with what looks like the flu. Ah!—I have it. But—am I really to advise? You are twenty-one, remember,—nearly twenty-two!"
The tender sarcasm in his voice brought a flood of colour to her cheeks.
"Go on!" she said, and stood quivering.
"Would you consider asking Lady Tonbridge to come and stay with you?
Nora is away on a visit."
Delia moved quietly to the writing-table, pulled off her gloves, sat down to write a note. He watched her, standing behind her; his strained yet happy look resting on the beautiful dark head.
She rose, and held out the note, addressed to Lady Tonbridge. He took the note, and the hand together. The temptation was irresistible. He raised the hand and kissed it. Both were naturally reminded of the only previous occasion on which he had done such a thing; and as he dropped his hold, Delia saw the ugly scar which would always mark his left wrist.
"Thank you!"—he said warmly—"That'll be an immense relief to my mind."
"You mustn't think she'll convert me," said Delia, quickly.