She blushed slightly, and drew her hand forcibly away. Then motioning me to a seat she cast herself into a low armchair near me, stretching forth her tiny foot, neat in its silk stocking and patent leather shoe. She made no response to my suggestion, so I repeated it.
“Why should I call you by your Christian name?” she asked.
“Because I call you by yours, Eva,” I answered earnestly. “I really can’t bear this persistent formality.”
She smiled, a rather curious smile it was, I thought.
“So you’re staying as guest here?” I went on, after a moment’s pause.
“Yes,” she explained. “My Uncle Henry, in Inverness, is very ill and not expected to live; therefore they summoned mother by telegraph, with other members of the family. As the servants have had no holiday this year, she sent them away for a fortnight and closed the house, Mrs Blain having invited me here.”
“Have you heard from your mother?”
“Yes, I had a wire yesterday to say that she had arrived, safely,” she answered, not, however, without a second’s hesitation, as though she were debating whether or no to tell me the truth.
“And Mr Blain has not returned from Paris yet?” I asked.
“No,” she responded. “The Blains are talking of joining him next week, or perhaps the week after, and have invited me to accompany them. I should be delighted, for I love Paris.”