“Why, I mentioned your name to Miss Hardacre herself.”
Dick Wilson looked aghast.
“You mentioned my name and profession, madam?”
“Well, sir, what fault has your superlative modesty to find with me now? Miss Hardacre expressed herself charmed, sir, that you should be present at the ball.”
“Charmed!”
“La, dear Mr. Wilson, of course I know all about that boyish escapade of yours, but those things are of no account in society. If we modish women were to avoid the men we had once flirted with, why, sir, we could go nowhere. I warrant you Miss Hardacre is a discreet young woman; she has forgotten that little affair years ago. Should she frown on you because of it? The best policy in these things, Mr. Wilson, is to act as if there had never been any harmless little romance at all.”
The painter had sat blushing like a boy during this harangue. He fidgeted in his chair, looked at the card-table and at the ceiling.
“I suppose this is the fashion, madam, in the genteel world?” he asked.
“Of course, sir, of course, and a very sensible fashion to be sure.”
“Then you think there is no reason why I should not present myself at Hardacre House?”