“She's not going to marry that chap, is she, Miss Chillingham?” he had asked.
“No,” said Beatrice; “you have my word for it, she isn't.”
As she was leaving, Mrs. Pomfret had taken Victoria's hand and drawn her aside, and looked into her face with a meaning smile.
“My dear!” she exclaimed, “he particularly asked that you be invited.”
“Who?” said Victoria.
“Humphrey. He stipulated that you should be here.”
“Then I'm very much obliged to him,” said Victoria, “for I've enjoyed myself immensely. I like your Englishman so much.”
“Do you?” said Mrs. Pomfret, searching Victoria's face, while her own brightened. “He's heir to one of the really good titles, and he has an income of his own. I couldn't put him up here, in this tiny box, because I have Mrs. Fronde. We are going to take him to the convention—and if you'd care to go, Victoria—?”
Victoria laughed.
“It isn't as serious as that,” she said. “And I'm afraid I can't go to the convention—I have some things to do in the neighbourhood.”