“Yes, Geoffrey, I know. You are engrossed in your wireless inventions,” she replied, gazing affectionately into his eyes. “And, after all, you are right. We women enjoy ourselves, but men who serve the world as you do are nobler if they keep away from all our feminine frivolities.”
“I suppose Glover is merry, as usual—quite a good fellow, isn’t he?”
“Yes. He’s the soul of the house-party. They are all out shooting to-day. Madame Valdavia, the wife of the Spanish millionaire banker, arrived last night. She’s quite young and charming. I wish you could meet her.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“You can if you will only call on mother to-morrow.”
“But I’m really too busy, Sylvia—so do please excuse me,” he pleaded, as they walked along the leaf-strewn path through the wood from Friar’s Gate, where half a mile away towards Lone Oak the shooting party were giving evidence of good sport.
“We have a fancy dress dinner to-night. Every one is wearing quaint costumes, and there’s certain to be a lot of fun. The party is really most enjoyable. I do wish you would call, Geoffrey—do,” she urged.
“No,” said the young man very seriously. “I have reasons which I will tell you afterwards.”
“You are always so mysterious,” she declared with a pretty pout. “I believe it is your horrible old wireless which makes you so.”
“No, not horrible,” he protested with a laugh. “Interesting, I admit—in more senses than one.”