Miss Jeannette L. Urmy, with her veil lifted, and relieved of her voluminous coat, was, he had to admit, distractingly pretty; not at all the type he had pictured as the original of the name. Young, pretty, and charming women (he was convinced that au fond she was charming) ought to have no obstinate prejudices against marriage. He even ventured to think that Miss Urmy's mind had become obscured on that point by those—well, indiscreet lines in the Morning Post. They had upset him; then why not her? They were so—premature.
As for Jeannette, in spite of Lord Chilminster's effortless ease, her powers of conversation were frozen. She was reduced to monosyllables, and she ate in proportion. It was a humiliating experience to be accepting the hospitality of the enemy; one, moreover, that made it awkward for her to prolong hostilities. Having broken bread in his tents (a Puritan strain was responsible for the illustration) she felt disarmed. Besides, she was rather ashamed of her maladroitness in mistaking Lord Chilminster for a common motor-man. It argued gaucherie. Perhaps he thought her unconventional call a violation of good taste—considered her forward! He had plainly shown his annoyance about that obnox—that embarrassing paragraph, and that fact spiked most of her batteries. He might, after all, prove to be quite——
"Do you mind if I smoke?"
Lord Chilminster's voice startled her out of her reverie. The servants had noiselessly retired, and they were alone.
"I—I feel ready to sink through the floor," she rejoined inconsequently.
He returned his cigarette case to his pocket, looking quite concerned. "I'm so sorry. I ought not to have——"
"No, no. Please smoke. It isn't that," stammered Jeannette.
"It's the Morning Post?"
Jeannette evaded his eye.
"Yes; it does put us in rather a tight place," mediated Chilminster.