There was so much frankness and charm in her tone and in her attitude, as she stood with half-extended hand, and head slightly inclined to one side, that Goddard reddened with a sense of boorishness.
“I am hardly a society man, Lady Phayre,” he said lamely, his pride not allowing him to formulate the more conventional apology.
She laughed. She had known men positively intrigue for the right of entrance at her door, and here was one refusing the privilege. He was a curiosity. Her self-pride was pricked.
“You mean my frivolity frightens you,” she said. “But I am not as frivolous as I look, I assure you. I can talk even earnestly at times.”
“Oh, it isn’t you,” he began.
“Then it is my friends. Well, some of them are as unbutterfly-like as bats. But if you don’t like a crowd, avoid an ‘at home’ day, and come any afternoon.”
“Do you honestly care whether I come or not?” asked Goddard bluntly.
“Well, considering that I have gone out of my way to ask you twice,” she replied, rather staggered, “you might have taken my sincerity for granted.”
She raised her chin a little, and put back her hand into her muff. Goddard realised that he had been rude. The desirable aspects of Lady Phayre’s friendship also began to dawn upon him.
“Forgive me, Lady Phayre,” he said, after an awkward pause. “You see what a bear I am.”