“Arrangements were proposed for me which I could not possibly accept,” she said, with much dignity. “My reasons were absolutely valid, as you will acknowledge if I ever explain them to you. I should like to justify myself by doing so now, but it is out of the question, unless—— Zoe,” she broke off suddenly, “it occurs to me sometimes that you and Maurice may not be what you seem. You also—I mean, you yourselves—may be travelling incognito. If it was so——?”
The possibilities of the situation flew through Zoe’s mind as Eirene’s voice ceased. If she were to make a bargain—to exchange her secret for Eirene’s? But the secret was not hers alone, but Maurice’s, and Wylie was still in ignorance of it. Besides, what if Eirene were really the spy she had at first imagined her, and this was a bold bid on her part for success in her nefarious schemes? Zoe’s decision was taken in an instant. “You mustn’t be so fanciful,” she said. “Maurice and I have lived the most unromantic life you can imagine. He is really an English country gentleman, as he has told you. We do really live in a nice, square, ugly, old Georgian house, with good grounds. When we are ambitious we call them the park. We have a good many tenants, who are a continual bother through wanting things done for them and not paying their rents. We are exactly like our neighbours, except that we have both been to college.” A prudential instinct, for which she commended herself, restrained her from mentioning the Gold Medal, though she had already exulted in Wylie’s undisguised astonishment when he was made acquainted with Maurice’s poetical fame.
Eirene sighed. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I had fancied—— There is something so striking about your brother—a mingling of strength and gentleness and carelessness—no, that is the wrong word; insouciance is what I mean—that I could not help hoping he was really noble.”
The temptation to reveal the truth was so overwhelming that Zoe took refuge in a highly moral tone. “You have such a horribly snobbish way of looking at things,” she said severely, “thinking whether people are noble instead of whether they are nice. Maurice and Captain Wylie are English gentlemen, and an English gentleman is the equal of any one in the world.”
“And an English lady?” demanded Eirene smartly.
“Superior to any one in the world, I should think, judging by the way in which foreign royalties employ English governesses,” retorted Zoe.
“I had an English governess,” said Eirene, closing her eyes languidly. “She was very highly connected, she said so; and she believed that one of the foresters—gamekeepers, you say?—was in love with her. She used to drop her handkerchief for him to pick up.”
“Poor thing! No doubt she wanted some consolation—or perhaps she was going crazy,” said Zoe. “I expect you led her a life.”
“You consider me very unamiable?” asked Eirene curiously. “Tell me, then; what do you think of me, honestly?”
“I don’t think you are unamiable really, but you seem to think of no one but yourself, and you are always thinking of yourself. You told me to say what I thought.”