“Well, you see——”
“Don’t make excuses. Do you?”
“Well, it’s like this, you see. I——”
He caught her eye. Next moment they were laughing together.
“No; but look here, you know,” said his lordship. “What I mean is, it isn’t that I don’t—I mean, look here, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be the best of pals.”
“Why, of course there isn’t.”
“No, really, I say? That’s ripping. Shake hands on it.”
They clasped hands; and it was in this affecting attitude that Sir Thomas Blunt, bustling downstairs, discovered them.
“Aha!” he cried archly. “Well, well, well! But don’t mind me, don’t mind me!”
Molly flushed uncomfortably; partly because she disliked Sir Thomas even when he was not arch, and hated him when he was: partly because she felt foolish; and principally because she was bewildered. She had not looked forward to meeting Sir Thomas that night. It was always unpleasant meeting him, but it would be more unpleasant than usual after she had upset the scheme for which he had worked so earnestly. She had wondered whether he would be cold and distant or voluble and heated. In her pessimistic moments she had anticipated a long and painful scene. That he should be behaving like this was not very much short of a miracle. She could not understand it.