“Miss Baring’s a real dear. But don’t fall in love with her, for I swear I’m not going to play gooseberry.”
He had protested in a whisper: “Fall in love with anyone but you?”
And she had replied: “I think I’m nice enough,” and had laughed at him over her shoulder and looked exceedingly desirable.
He had never dared till that inspired moment speak to her of love in plain, bald terms; now he had done it and not only remained unfrozen, but basked in the warmth of her approval.
“I think that’s the most beautiful beano I’ve ever had,” he said to Marcelle, on their journey back to Godalming.
Yes. There was Dorothy. She had promised to participate in a similar beano any time he liked. But such bright occurrences must be rare. He longed to plunge into fervid correspondence. Caution restrained him. Elusive and perplexing, Heaven knew what she might say to a violent declaration of passion. It might ruin a state of things both delicate and delicious. Far better carry on his wooing by word of mouth.
In the meanwhile, the days at Churton Towers were long and life lacked variety. So he looked forward to the visit of Mr. James Burden, compound of fossil and sentimental blighter though he might be.
Punctually at three o’clock, the appointed hour, one afternoon, the maid who attended the door came up to Godfrey Baltazar waiting lonely in the great hall, and announced the visitor. With the aid of the now familiar crutch he rose nimbly. He saw advancing towards him in a brisk, brusque way, a still young-looking man in grey tweeds, rather above medium height, thickset, giving an immediate impression of physical strength.
“Are you Mr. Godfrey Baltazar?”