“Indeed, it is a fact,” replied the other, “I wish she would take you as her model, my dear Bellward. You are the pattern of prudence, are you not?”
He paused perceptibly and Desmond held his breath.
“She has very few reputable friends,” Mortimer continued presently, “under a cloud as she is, she could hardly frequent the company of her old associates, Mowbury and Lazarro and Mrs. Malplaquet, you doubtless know whom I mean. I know she has a very strong recommendation to you, so I naturally thought—well, no matter!”
He rose and extended his hand.
“Au revoir, Bellward,” he said, “you shall hear from me very soon. You’ve got a snug little place here, I must say, and everything in charming taste. I like your pretty cushions.”
The blood flew to Desmond’s face and he bent down, on pretense of examining the cushions, to hide his confusion.
“They aren’t bad,” he said, “I got them at Harrod’s!”
He accompanied Mortimer to the front door and watched him disappear down the short drive and turn out of the gate into the road. Then feeling strangely ill at ease, he went back to join Nur-el-Din in the dining-room. But only the housekeeper was there, clearing the table.
“If you’re looking for the young lady, sir,” said old Martha, “she’s gone out!”
“Oh!” said Desmond, with a shade of disappointment in his voice, “will she be back for tea?”