She laughed: 'You had better take her into dinner yourself.'
'I shall do so if she will come.'
The door closed on him, and she looked after him with a frown of impatience and a smile of astonishment.
What a fuss about a little fisher-girl! she thought. As if the girl could not go to the maids—go to the nurseries—go to the still-room—anywhere, anywhere. What could it matter?
She was accustomed to see her playthings no more when once they had passed an idle hour for her. Why could not somebody take away this one? She would not have been here had it not been for Loswa. It was all Loswa's fault, no one else's. And who could tell that the girl would be such a dumb, stupid, frightened creature? On the island she had had force and courage and talkativeness enough.
Why would Otho always take everything au grand sérieux? He should have lived on that island.
He was quite capable of taking her in to dinner, though there were high ladies of every degree staying in the house! And she hated the idea of his making himself ridiculous. She would override all customs and conventionalities herself when she chose, but she was too thoroughly a woman of the world not to regard a social solecism, a drawing-room blunder, with much more horror than she would have felt for greater crimes. Anything which made an absurd story for society was to her detestable.
'Murder all your enemies to three generations, like a Montenegrin,' she would say à propos of such matters, 'but never make a fault in precedence at your table.'
Othmar meanwhile dressed very hurriedly, and hastened to the drawing-rooms before they could fill again. The latent chivalry of his temper was active; he would have been capable for the moment of any eccentricity to show his honour for this forlorn child.
'What wretched artificial creatures we all are!' he thought. 'No wonder, when any natural life comes amongst us, it feels dazed and astray.'