He was so certain of himself—he was always so certain of himself—that the question rang out like a taunt. Lady Barbara felt her self-control weakening.
"And your informant?" she asked, still trying not to yield ground.
"I've really forgotten. Obviously no one in the family. So, you see, there must be several people who know. For what it's worth, I have not handed the story on."
"How chivalrous!—And to a girl that you'd never met!"
"I didn't want Jim to be mixed up in a fresh scandal. And you've driven this country near enough to revolution as it is."
He picked up his hat and was starting towards the stairs, when an unexpected sound stopped him, and he turned to see her burying her face in her hands. It was a surprising collapse in one who seemed to be made of steel, though he wondered whether the tears were an artifice or a novel indulgence of emotion.
"You didn't mean what you said!" she sobbed. "Please say you were only punishing me for taking you away from the ball!"
"I've not the least desire to punish you. You've got great qualities; you were charming at dinner, you're kind and good-natured, you can be fascinating when you like. And then you spoil all you are, all you might be and do, by tricks unworthy of a chorus-girl. Arranging this meeting at all to smooth one ruffled feather of your vanity. The sham headache. Calling me by my Christian name the first time we meet. Things of that kind. That's not the grande dame, Lady Barbara."
She began to collect her gloves and cloak.