(“How,” O’Hagan will ask, “could she be expected to know that a stranger addressing her in the Strand was one in whose discretion she might safely confide? To permit any boor to endue a dress suit is to kill chivalry.”)
“Madame, I beg that you will not misjudge me. I am not mistaken, neither in my surmise nor as to my plain duty. I do not know your name, nor seek to learn it. Mine is Captain O’Hagan. And had you been a flower-seller I should as staunchly have disputed my right to protect you from insult as I do knowing you to be of my own rank.”
She was bewildered. My friend is essentially bewildering. He is not a person whom any man or any woman can hope to snub—to overlook. He comes into one’s life, a tangible proposition, which cannot be ignored; which, unavoidably, must be dealt with.
“I do not know you, sir. I really cannot stand here conversing with a perfect stranger.” Then, with a little, half-doubting glance up to the fine eyes: “Are you one of the O’Hagans of Dunnamore?”
O’Hagan bowed as no other man, though you search the courts of Europe, can bow.
“Then, Captain O’Hagan, since you are a gentleman, please forget about the door-porter. Believe me, I have troubles enough without seeking new ones.”
There was pathos in the words, in her low, quivering voice.
“I cannot doubt it. And, since you know my family, you may know that its name stands stainless for seven generations. You should not be here, at this hour, alone. In the absence of a father, of a brother, accept my escort. It is in no way encumbent upon you to accept my friendship, though it would be devoted and disinterested.”
She was biting her lip now, in pathetic perplexity; but there was a new confidence in the glance which she gave him. It was the glance of a woman who sorely lacked a friend, and into whose heart the conviction was stealing that heaven had sent her one.
“You are more than kind, Captain O’Hagan.” Now she met his eyes frankly. Her decision was made. “I am—Lady Brian Dillon.”