“Do you not think so?” said Blanche, with involuntary eagerness; but before Stasy had time to reply, they were interrupted by their mother’s entering the room.
“Quick, dears,” she said. “You must get ready. Sir Adam will be waiting for you.”
For the kind old man was devoting himself to “doing” London for his adopted grand-daughters’ benefit, two or three times a week, in the earlier part of the day.
At that very moment, at no great distance from the spot where Blanche and Stasy Derwent had been discussing Archie Dunstan’s character, the very person in question was sitting beside Lady Marth in her boudoir, listening to a very solemn oration discoursed, for his benefit, by that somewhat dictatorial lady herself.
She had summoned him by a note the evening before, and as he felt himself in duty bound to obey the behest of an old friend, he had made his appearance punctually. He was not without some suspicion as to the nature of the good advice she intended to bestow upon him, but saw no advantage in evading the interview.
“I must put an end to it, once for all,” he thought to himself. “Why will women meddle in such matters? But Josephine is honest and trustworthy when she feels herself trusted, so I’d rather have to do with her than with many would-be match-makers.”
So he sat in silence, patiently enough, to all appearance, while Lady Marth unbosomed herself of what she considered her mission, prefacing her advice with the usual excuses for interference, on the ground that, sooner or later, both of the principals concerned would thank her for having acted as a true friend in the matter.
Archie bent his head in acknowledgment of her kind intentions, but beyond this, neither by word nor look did he help her out with what she had to say.
This attitude of his made her task by no means easier. For some little time she floundered about in unusual embarrassment; but once fairly under weigh, her words flowed fluently. She dilated on Archie’s lonely position—the advisability of his making up his mind to marry, instead of remaining a target for the aims of designing mammas or rich husband-hunting daughters, and possibly some day finding himself pinned by their well-directed arrows. She hinted at the satisfaction and security of being cared for, “for himself,” and by one who had known him long and thoroughly, to all of which Archie listened unmoved, with the utmost deference and attention, till her ladyship at last pulled up short, partly through breathlessness, partly because, without the encouragement of a responsive word or gesture, she had really nothing more to say.
Then he looked up, but nothing in his face helped her to any conclusion as to the effect of her exordium.