friends there,” said Hastings smiling, “You know—my ideas are rather straight laced,—I suppose you would say, Puritanical. I shouldn’t enjoy it and wouldn’t know how to behave.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Clifford, but added with great cordiality,—“I’m sure well be friends although you may not approve of me and my set, but you will like Severn and Selby because—because, well they are like yourself, old chap.”
After a moment he continued, “There is something I want to speak about. You see when I introduced you, last week, in the Luxembourg, to Valentine———”
“Not a word!” cried Hastings, smiling, “you must not tell me a word of her!”
“Why———”
“No—not a word!” he said gaily,—“I insist,—promise me upon your honor you will not speak of her until I give you permission; promise!”
“I promise,” said Clifford, amazed.
“She is a charming girl,—we had such a delightful chat after you left, and I thank you for presenting me, but not another word about her until I give you permission.”
“Oh,” murmured Clifford.
“Remember your promise,” he smiled, as he turned into his gateway.
Clifford strolled across the street and traversing the ivy-covered alley, entered his garden.
He felt for his studio key, muttering, “I wonder—I wonder,—but of course he doesn’t!”
He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staring at the two cards tacked over the panels.
