Stuart's voice arose from the farther end of the balcony, where the white figure of Hope showed dimly in the darkness.
"They are talking about you over there," said Miss Langham, turning toward him.
"Well, I don't mind," answered Clay, "as long as they talk about me—over there."
Miss Langham shook her head. "You are very frank and audacious," she replied, doubtfully, "but it is rather pleasant as a change."
"I don't call that audacious, to say I don't want to be interrupted when I am talking to you. Aren't the men you meet generally audacious?" he asked. "I can see why not—though," he continued, "you awe them."
"I can't think that's a nice way to affect people," protested Miss Langham, after a pause. "I don't awe you, do I?"
"Oh, you affect me in many different ways," returned Clay, cheerfully. "Sometimes I am very much afraid of you, and then again my feelings are only those of unlimited admiration."
"There, again, what did I tell you?" said Miss Langham.
"Well, I can't help doing that," said Clay. "That is one of the few privileges that is left to a man in my position—it doesn't matter what I say. That is the advantage of being of no account and hopelessly detrimental. The eligible men of the world, you see, have to be so very careful. A Prime Minister, for instance, can't talk as he wishes, and call names if he wants to, or write letters, even. Whatever he says is so important, because he says it, that he must be very discreet. I am so unimportant that no one minds what I say, and so I say it. It's the only comfort I have."
"Are you in the habit of going around the world saying whatever you choose to every woman you happen to—to—" Miss Langham hesitated.