“He is of course a paragon,” said Falloden.
Constance glanced mockingly at her companion.
“I don’t see why he should be called anything so disagreeable. All we knew of him was—that he was delightful! So learned—and simple—and modest—the dearest person to travel with! When he left us at Palermo, the whole party seemed to go flat.”
“You pile it on!”
“Not at all. You asked me if he were more than an acquaintance. I am giving you the facts.”
“I don’t enjoy them!” said Falloden abruptly.
She burst into her soft laugh.
“I’m so sorry. But I really can’t alter them. Where has my party gone to?”
She looked ahead, and saw that by a little judicious holding back Falloden had dexterously isolated her both from his own group and hers. Mrs. Manson and Lady Laura were far ahead in the wide, moving crowd that filled the new-made walk across the Christ Church meadow; so were the Hoopers and the slender figure and dark head of Alexander Sorell.
“Don’t distress yourself, please. We shall catch them up before we get to Merton Street. And this only pays the very smallest fraction of your debt! I understood that if my mother wrote—”