“We were talking about you,” said Lady Wilmot, rising graciously.
“I was unconscious of my danger,” returned Mayne, with an audacious smile which met its friendly response. Mayne was, with Lady Wilmot, a privileged person, chiefly because he took her maliciousness for granted.
“You’ve grown,” she remarked, regarding with critical attention his bronzed face and tall, well-knit figure.
“What did you expect? I was but a lad of thirty when I left you.” He had shaken hands with Mrs. Carruthers, and seated himself on the end of a divan by this time—very much at his ease.
“You’re much better looking,” was Lady Wilmot’s next comment.
“I can bear it,” he returned, imperturbably. “If I say you haven’t altered at all it’s the best compliment I can pay you.”
“I will ignore its lack of truthfulness, and give you some tea,” she said, crossing to the tea-table. “Are you going to read any more papers this time? Why didn’t you come to see me when you were home two years ago?”
“Because, dear lady, you were abroad.”
“Was I? So I was. Who did you see then? Did you see the Kingslakes?” She shot a glance at him as he rose to take the cup she offered, but his face was immovable.
“I didn’t see any one. After reading an exceedingly dull paper before the Royal Society, I fled to the shelter of the paternal roof in Ireland, desperately ashamed of myself.”