She seated herself in the one Miss Grayling had just vacated. I sat down beside her. She glanced at me, laughter in her eyes. I was all in a stupid tremblement.
‘You remember that last night I told you that I might require your friendly services in diplomatic intervention?’ I nodded,—I felt that the allusion was unfair. ‘Well, the occasion’s come,—or, at least, it’s very near.’ She was still,—and I said nothing to help her. ‘You know how unreasonable papa can be.’
I did,—never a more pig-headed man in England than Geoffrey Lindon,—or, in a sense, a duller. But, just then, I was not prepared to admit it to his child.
‘You know what an absurd objection he has to—Paul.’
There was an appreciative hesitation before she uttered the fellow’s Christian name,—when it came it was with an accent of tenderness which stung me like a gadfly. To speak to me—of all men,—of the fellow in such a tone was—like a woman.
‘Has Mr Lindon no notion of how things stand between you?’
‘Except what he suspects. That is just where you are to come in, papa thinks so much of you—I want you to sound Paul’s praises in his ear—to prepare him for what must come.’ Was ever rejected lover burdened with such a task? Its enormity kept me still. ‘Sydney, you have always been my friend,—my truest, dearest friend. When I was a little girl you used to come between papa and me, to shield me from his wrath. Now that I am a big girl I want you to be on my side once more, and to shield me still.’
Her voice softened. She laid her hand upon my arm. How, under her touch, I burned.
‘But I don’t understand what cause there has been for secrecy,—why should there have been any secrecy from the first?’
‘It was Paul’s wish that papa should not be told.’