Surely he could not doubt her words; those nice friendly accents were the embodiment of truth itself.
‘I don’t mean to make a serious complaint,’ she added, in injured tones, showing that she did. ‘Only we had asked nearly all of them to meet you, as the son of your illustrious father, whom many of my friends know personally; and—they were disappointed.’
It was now time for Somerset to be genuinely grieved at what he had done. Paula seemed so good and honourable at that moment that he could have laid down his life for her.
‘When I was dressed, I came in here to ask you to reconsider your decision,’ she continued; ‘or to meet us in the drawing-room if you could not possibly be ready for dinner. But you were gone.’
‘And you sat down in that chair, didn’t you, darling, and remained there a long time musing!’ he thought. But that he did not say.
‘I am very sorry,’ he murmured.
‘Will you make amends by coming to our garden party? I ask you the very first.’
‘I will,’ replied Somerset. To add that it would give him great pleasure, etc., seemed an absurdly weak way of expressing his feelings, and he said no more.
‘It is on the nineteenth. Don’t forget the day.’
He met her eyes in such a way that, if she were woman, she must have seen it to mean as plainly as words: ‘Do I look as if I could forget anything you say?’