Lady Sandgate, left alone with Lord Theign, drew the line at their companion’s enthusiasm. “That may be true of Mr. Bender — for it’s dreadful how he bears one down. But I simply find him a terror.”

“Well,” said her friend, who seemed disposed not to fatigue¹ the question, “I dare say a terror will help me.” He had other business to which he at once gave himself. “And now, if you please, for that girl.”

“I’ll send her to you,” she replied, “if you can’t stay to luncheon².”

“I’ve three or four things to do,” he pleaded, “and I lunch with Kitty at one.”

She submitted in that case — but disappointedly. “With Berkeley Square then you’ve time. But I confess I don’t quite grasp the so odd inspiration that you’ve set those men to carry out.”

He showed surprise and regret, but even greater decision. “Then it needn’t trouble you, dear — it’s enough that I myself go straight.”

“Are you so very convinced it’s straight?”— she wouldn’t be a bore to him, but she couldn’t not be a blessing³.

“What in the world else is it,” he asked, “when, having good reasons, one acts on ’em?”

“You must have an immense array,” she sighed, “to fly so in the face of Opinion!”

“‘Opinion’?” he commented —“I fly in its face? Why, the vulgar thing, as I’m taking my quiet walk, flies in mine! I give it a whack⁴ with my umbrella and send it about its business.” To which he added with more reproach: “It’s enough to have been dished by Grace — without your falling away!”

Sadly and sweetly she defended herself. “It’s only my great affection — and all that these years have been for us: they it is that make me wish you weren’t so proud.”

“I’ve a perfect sense, my dear, of what these years have been for us — a very charming matter. But ‘proud’ is it you find me of the daughter who does her best to ruin me, or of the one who does her best to

分享到：