“You don’t seem to care very much, Louise,” remarked the woman. “And yet, he’s such an awfully nice young fellow.”
“You’ve said that dozens of times before,” was Louise’s abrupt reply.
“And I mean it. You could do a lot worse than to marry him, remember, though he is a bit hard-up nowadays. But things with him will right themselves before long.”
“Why do you suggest that?” asked the girl resentfully.
“Well—because, my dear, I know that you are very fond of him,” the woman laughed. “Now, you can’t deny it—can you?”
The girl, who had travelled so widely ever since she had left school, drew a deep breath and, turning her head, gazed blankly out of the window again.
What Mrs. Bond had said was her secret. She was very fond of Hugh. They had not met very often, but he had attracted her—a fact of which both Benton and his female accomplice were well aware.
“You don’t reply,” laughed the woman for whom the Paris Surete was searching everywhere; “but your face betrays the truth, my dear. Don’t worry,” she added in a tone of sympathy. “No doubt he’ll write as soon as he is back in England. Personally, I don’t believe he really cares a rap for the Ranscomb girl. It’s only a matter of money—and Dorise has plenty.”
“I don’t wish to hear anything about Mr. Henfrey’s love affairs!” cried the girl petulantly. “I tell you that they do not interest me.”
“Because you are piqued that he does not write, child. Ah, dear, I know!” she laughed, as the girl left the room.