I stared at her for a moment and then at Dora’s broad back and sturdy hips. Inconsolable? I can’t make out what the good lady is driving at. If she were a vulgar woman trying to squeeze her way into society and needed the lubricant of the family baronetcy, I could understand her eagerness to parade me as her appanage. But titles in her drawing-room are as common as tea-cups. And the inconsolability of Dora—
“If I did come she would be bored to death,” said I.
“She is willing to risk it.”
“But why should she seek martyrdom?”
“There is another reason,” said my aunt, ignoring my pertinent question, but glancing at me reassuringly “there is another reason why it would be well for you to come on this cruise with us.” She sank her voice. “You met Miss Gascoigne in the park last week—”
“A very charming and kind young lady,” said I.
“I am afraid you have been a little indiscreet. People have been talking.”
“Then theirs, not mine, is the indiscretion.”
“But, my dear Marcus, when you spring a good-looking young person, whom you introduce as your Mohammedan ward, upon London society, and she makes a scene in public—why—what else have people got to talk about?”
“They might fall back upon the doctrine of predestination or the price of fish,” I replied urbanely.