“Then shall we go upstairs again?” proposed Miss Fforde.
Mr Norreys acquiesced. But he had laid his plans, and he was a more diplomatic adversary than Miss Fforde was prepared to cope with.
“I finished reading the book we were speaking of the other evening,” he began in a matter-of-fact voice; “I mean—” and he named the book. “At least, I fancy it was you I was discussing it with. The last volume falls off greatly.”
“Oh, do you think so?” said the girl in a tone of half-indignant disappointment, falling blindly into the trap. “I, on the contrary, felt that the last volume made amends for all that was unsatisfactory in the others. You see by it what he was driving at all the time, and that the persiflage and apparent cynicism were only means to an end. I do hate cynicism—it is so easy, and such a little makes such a great effect.”
Something in her tone made Despard feel irritated. “Is she hitting at me again?” he thought. And the idea threw him, in his turn, off his guard.
The natural result was that both forgot themselves in the interest of the discussion. And Despard, when he, as it were, awoke to the realisation of this, took care not to throw away the advantage he had gained. He drew her out, he talked as he but seldom exerted himself to do, and when, at the end of half-an-hour or so, an elderly lady, whom he knew by name only, was seen approaching them, and Miss Fforde sprang to her feet, exclaiming,—
“Have you been looking for me? I hope not—” he smiled quietly as he prepared to withdraw—he had succeeded!
“Good-night, Mr Norreys,” said Maisie simply.
“Two evenings ago she would not say good-night at all,” he thought. But he made no attempt to do more than bow quietly.
“You are very—cold, grim—no, I don’t know what to call it, Maisie, dear,” said the lady, her cousin and present chaperone, as they drove away, “in your manner to men; and that man in particular—Despard Norreys. It is not often he is so civil to any girl.”