straight on." The others, in the return, evidently startled, had half paused again, keeping now well apart. "She 's horribly surprised and she wants to slope," he continued. "But it's too late."
Maisie advanced beside him, making out even across the interval that her ladyship was ill at ease. "Then what will she do?"
Sir Claude puffed his cigarette. "She 's quickly thinking." He appeared to enjoy it.
Ida had faltered but an instant; her companion clearly gave her moral support. Maisie thought he somehow looked brave, and he had indeed no likeness whatever to Mr. Perriam. His face, thin and rather sharp, was smooth, and it was not till they came nearer that she saw he had a remarkably fair little moustache. She could already see that his eyes were of the lightest blue. He was far nicer than Mr. Perriam. Mamma looked terrible from afar, but even under her guns the child's curiosity flickered and she appealed again to Sir Claude. "Is it—is it Lord Eric?"
Sir Claude smoked composedly enough. "I think it 's the Baron."
This was a happy solution—it fitted her idea of a Baron. But what idea, as she now
