“Yes, leases at the solicitors’,” replied the private secretary, flushing slightly. The General looked indifferent.
“Really?” said the lady. “There must be a lot of that sort of thing to see to just now, I suppose. Of course, I shall be delighted to have Mr. Forsyth’s escort, provided he drops me at Bond Street. I cannot have a critical male person following me across my tailor’s sacred threshold.”
She shook a gay finger at the party and disappeared into one of the French windows—a vision of dainty chiffons and rustling silks.
“She’s gone to put her prayer-book away,” laughed Forsyth, in the nervous manner of one wishing to cover an awkward situation.
“She needs one,” muttered the General under his mustache, shooting a furtive glance at his nephew.
Beaumanoir said nothing, and the three paced on, hardly speaking, till it was time to dress for dinner. Since the General’s return from town on the day of Mrs. Talmage Eglinton’s headache, not exactly a coolness, but a constraint, had sprung up between them. A suspicion of cross-purposes was in the air, which kept them silent when all together, but
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