And as he spoke he glanced at Blanche, who was standing a little behind Rosy. He had already shaken hands with her, in an unobtrusive, friendly, yet deferential way, which somehow gratified her, simple and un-self-conscious as she was.
“He is such a rattle of a young fellow,” she said to herself; “I wonder he remembers having met me before.”
“When will Hebe be ready?” said Lady Marth, with a sort of soft complaint, as if she had been kept waiting for hours. “Does she need to go on talking confidentially to all those bakers’ and brewers’ daughters whom she is so fond of?—Can’t you give her a hint to be quick, Rosy?”
She half turned, laying her hand on what she supposed to be Miss Milward’s arm; but, somehow, Rosy had moved away. The arm Lady Marth actually touched was Blanche’s.
Blanche started. She had been watching Archie.
“Can I—” she began; but before she had time to say more, Lady Marth drew herself back.
“Where is Rosy?” she said haughtily. “I thought—I thought the meeting was over, and that we were only ourselves. I really must go,” and she stood up, drawing her cloak, which had partly slipped off, more closely round her shoulders.
Mr Dunstans face grew stern, all the boyishness died out of it, and he looked ten years older.
“Miss Derwent,” he said, in a peculiarly clear and most respectful tone, “I do beg your pardon. I did not notice till this moment that you were standing. If you are going, Lady Marth, you will allow me to move your chair,” and, as he spoke, he drew it forward a little.
Lady Marth gave him an icy glance over her shoulder, and moved away. Blanche simply accepted the courtesy.