She coloured bashfully as she spoke, and Eric felt that he had been unkind in not putting her at ease. The flush so changed her façade of efficiency and determination that, though she evidently wanted him to stay, she did not know how to ask.
“I’ll finish my cigar with you, if I may,” he said. “You must have a wearing life with Sir Matthew, if he always keeps you up as late as this. Have you been with him long?”
The jejune encouragement restored her composure; and Eric saw with dismay that he must talk in self-defence or submit to unrestricted loquacity.
“Two years,” she answered; then in rapid, unsought confidence: “You see, he and father were great friends at Cambridge, and, when I wanted to do war-work, father wouldn’t let me learn to make munitions and mother wouldn’t let me go into an office. They’re afraid to allow me out of their sight. I wanted to nurse or drive a car, but father and mother—”
“You have a lot to put up with from your parents!,” Eric interrupted.
“Oh, they’re hopeless. I expect you’ve met father—”
“I don’t even know your name, as you assure me you’re not Lady Woodstock.”
“Ivy Maitland. Father’s the judge, you know.”
“I don’t know him, but he’s a brother of the general, isn’t he? I know Lady Maitland very well—your aunt, I mean.”
“Oh, as if mother knew anybody or anybody knew mother! Well, I had to do something: both my sisters were married, and my brothers were fighting. Then Sir Matthew wanted a secretary....”