“Confide in me,” Mr. Caryll invited her.
“He is a great gentleman,” she prepared him.
“No matter. I love great gentlemen.”
“They call him Lord Rotherby.”
At that sudden and utterly unexpected mention of his half-brother's name—his unknown half-brother—Mr. Caryll came to his feet with an alacrity which a more shrewd observer would have set down to some cause other than mere respect for a viscount. The hostess was shrewd, but not shrewd enough, and if Mr. Caryll's expression changed for an instant, it resumed its habitual half-scornful calm so swiftly that it would have needed eyes of an exceptional quickness to have read it.
“Enough!” he said. “Who could deny his lordship?”
“Shall I tell them you are coming?” she inquired, her hand already upon the door.
“A moment,” he begged, detaining her. “'Tis a runaway marriage this, eh?”
Her full-hearted smile beamed on him again; she was a very woman, with a taste for the romantic, loving love. “What else, sir?” she laughed.
“And why, mistress,” he inquired, eying her, his fingers plucking at his nether lip, “do they desire my testimony?”