"Same here. Lady Ormstork is a proper old grandee, but, well, naturally she's not exactly my idea of an afternoon's fun."
"I dare say not," Ulrica said dryly.
"Now you are," he declared boldly.
She ignored the compliment together with the amorous look which accompanied it. "I have often wondered how you and dear old Ormstork were getting on;" she remarked with self-possessed blandness. "One hears of such curious matches nowadays."
For a moment Peckover hardly realized the drift of the remark. Then he stopped dead. "Why, you don't mean to say," he gasped, "you thought I was making love to the old gal?"
She looked intensely amused at his face of disgust. "Lady Ormstork is not bad looking for her age," she suggested wickedly. "You must admit she is rather handsome."
"I dare say," he returned, not certain how far she was in earnest. "It never occurred to me to take stock of her."
Ulrica kept her countenance steady, but her eyes were dancing. "Then your devotion was purely Platonic?" she observed.
"You may call it what you like," he replied, playing for safety. "As I wasn't taking any."
"Ah, then, I suppose it was devotion to your friend, Lord Quorn," she pursued, the corners of her mouth twitching with mischief. "Of course. He saved your life, didn't he? And you—yes; how generous of you."