Vaughan controlled himself. He could see Mary out of the corner of his eye, and knew that she had not yet taken the alarm. But the least violence might attract her attention. “Whichever it be,” he said firmly, “is no business of yours.”
“If you claim the girl——”
“I do not claim her, Flixton. I have told you that. But——”
“But you mean to play the dog in the manger?”
“I mean to see,” Vaughan replied sternly, “that you don’t do her any harm.”
Flixton hesitated. Secretly he held Vaughan in respect; and he would have postponed his visit to Queen’s Square had he foreseen that that gentleman would detect him. But to retreat now was another matter. The duel was still in vogue; barely two years before the Prime Minister had gone out with a brother peer in Battersea Fields; barely twenty years before one Cabinet Minister had shot another on Wimbledon Common. He could not, therefore, afford to show the white feather, and though he hesitated, it was not for long. “You mean to see to that, do you?” he retorted.
“I do.”
“Then come and see,” he returned flippantly. “I’m going to have a chat with the young lady now. That’s not murder, I suppose?” And he turned on his heel and strolled across the turf towards the group of which Mary was the centre.
Vaughan followed with black looks; and when Mary Smith, informed of their approach by one of the children, turned a startled face towards them, he was at Flixton’s shoulder, and pressing before him.
But the Honourable Bob had the largest share of presence of mind, and he was the first to speak. “Miss Smith,” he said, raising his hat with aplomb, “I—you remember me, I am sure?”