"But why hasn't Mizzi set supper?" asked Beatrice, pausing in the act of taking off her hat.
"I don't know," said Lionel carelessly. "It is true we had a slight difference, but surely——"
She caught up his words. "A difference! with my maid!"
Lionel cursed his stupidity in silence. The unlucky words had slipped from his mouth unheeding. He stood dumb.
"What was the difference about?" asked Beatrice frigidly. "Did you try to kiss her?"
At this stroke of feminine intuition Lionel felt himself to be in deep waters. He was no lover of lies, and to this peerless creature a lie would be doubly treacherous. On the other hand, something was due to Mizzi: not only had he tried to kiss her—the feat had been successfully accomplished.
"Do you think," he asked reproachfully, "that the moment your back was turned I could transfer my worship to another?"
"I think it quite possible," said the lady with a twinkle he did not see.
"Then, madam," returned Lionel in his best wounded manner, "let me tell you what happened. I rang for tea. Your maid served it with a certain coldness of manner. I asked the reason, and she accused me of folly in being devoted to you. She even hinted that your words were not wholly to be relied on. I at once led her from the room."
"Without a kiss?"