“Ask the Ambassador if he will ride with me to-morrow afternoon, will you, unless he’s engaged?”
“At what time?”
“Half-past four. Perhaps he’ll dine afterwards.”
“Very well. And now I’m going up to the pavilion.”
But she did not go, although she was genuinely curious about the man who had killed his son and had been cast out by the woman he loved. Secretly Lady Ingleton was much more softly romantic than Mrs. Clarke was. She was hard on bores, and floated in an atmosphere of delicate selfishness, but she could be very kind if her imagination was roused, and though almost strangely devoid of prejudices she had instincts that were not unsound.
That evening she gave Mrs. Clarke’s message to her husband.
“To-morrow—to-morrow?” he said, in his light tenor voice, inquiringly. “Yes, I can go. As it happens, I’m breakfasting with Borinsky at the Russian Palace, so I shall be on the spot. John can meet me with Freddie.”
Freddie was the Ambassador’s favorite horse.
“But can Borinsky put up with you till half-past four?”
“Cynthia Clarke won’t mind if I turn up before my time.”