"Oh, no one—no one has done anything, but—I am sick of Lord Goodwood's name—tired of it!"
Lady Marabout sat almost speechless with surprise.
"Tired of it, my dear Flora?"
Little Montolieu laughed:
"Well, tired of it, perhaps from hearing him praised so often, as the Athenian trader grew sick of Aristides, and the Jacobin of Washington's name. Is it unpardonably heterodox to say so?"
Lady Marabout stirred her coffee in perplexity:
"My dear child, pray don't speak in that way; that's like Philip's tone when he is enigmatical and sarcastic, and worries me. I really cannot in the least understand you about Lord Goodwood, it is quite incomprehensible to me. I thought I overheard him to-day at Lady George's concert speak very definitely to you indeed, and when he was interrupted by the Duchess before you could give him his reply, I thought I heard him say he should call to-morrow morning to know your ultimate decision. Was I right?"
"Quite right."
"He really proposed marriage to you to-day?"
"Yes."