“Because she’s taken a deuce of a fancy to you.”
“Really!”
An iceberg had entered the voice now.
“Yes, thinks you the smartest woman in London, and all that. So you are.”
“I’m very sorry, but even the smartest woman in London can’t throw over the Brayley’s. Take another box for the second.”
Lord Holme looked fearfully sulky and lounged out of the room.
On the following morning he strode into Lady Holme’s boudoir about twelve with a radiant face.
“It’s all right!” he exclaimed. “Talk of diplomatists! I ought to be an ambassador.”
He flung himself into a chair, grinning with satisfaction like a schoolboy.
“What is it?” asked Lady Holme, looking up from her writing-table.