“I will tell you, if you really wish,” was Mary’s candid answer.
“Yes, I do wish, honestly.”
“You are frightfully, painfully just. You are terribly cautious. And—” She paused, and a faint blush spread over her cheek.
“Don’t spoil it, please. Finish what you were going to say. I can see you are a very discerning critic.”
Mary was a long time before she would answer. Then she turned away, and her blush deepened.
“I should say loyalty and honesty were your greatest characteristics. That you would be a sincere friend and a very generous enemy.”
She was leaving the room, but Farquhar darted up and detained her.
“I say, you know, that is the very greatest compliment I have ever had paid me,” he said, roused from his usual impassivity. “Will you think I am taking a liberty if I suggest that we shake hands on it?”
“Oh, not at all,” said Mary, in a rather fluttering way, as she put her hand in his.
She left the room, and he set about to write his letter to Moreno. But the disturbing vision of Lady Mary, with that faint flush on her cheek, appeared several times between the sentences of the rather lengthy epistle. That letter went out by the evening post.