“Help you? I!”
There was marked surprise in the tone, but there was also, if the hearer erred not, a hint of gratification and a willingness to hear more.
“You give me the idea”—permitting herself to take timid stock of him as she spoke—“of being very determined, and able to make people mind what you say.”
“Do I?”
Bonnybell hesitated a moment, both to heighten the evident curiosity that she had roused, and because she was divided between two or three artistic openings. But her time was running out. She must not allow herself to hesitate.
“Is—is Colonel Landon a friend of yours?”
“Old Charlie Landon a friend of mine? God forbid!”
There was such a distinct tone of offence at the suggestion in this robust disclaimer, that Bonnybell clasped her little black hands, which she had on several former occasions found to be so invaluable as “properties,” in an ecstasy of relief.
“Oh, I am so glad!” After all, it was pleasant and refreshing to tell truth as a change once in a way, and with a judicious economy.
“I can’t imagine how Lady Tennington could have asked you to meet such a beastly old reprobate!”