“Lady Marnham will give you tea on Friday. I shall not be at home,” she said.
“But I am going back to New York next week,” he said, confidently.
“Next week? Are you so busy?”
“I am not anxious to return, but my man Turk says he hates London. He says he'll leave me if I stay here a month. I can't afford to lose Turk.”
“And he can't afford to lose you. Stay, Phil; the Saxondales are such jolly people.”
“How about the tea on Friday?”
“Oh, that is no consideration.”
“But it is, you know. You used to give me tea every day in the week.” He saw at once that he had gone beyond the lines, and drew back wisely. “Let me come on Friday, and we'll have a good, sensible chat.”
“On that one condition,” she said, earnestly.
“Thank you. Good-bye. I see Lady Frances is ready to go. Evidently I have monopolized you to a somewhat thoughtless extent. Everybody is looking daggers at me, including the prince, who came in ten minutes ago.”
He arose and held her hand for a moment at parting. Her swift, abashed glance toward Prince Ugo, whose presence she had not observed, did not escape his eyes. She looked up and saw the peculiar smile on Quentin's lips, and there was deep meaning in her next remark to him:
“You will meet the prince here on Friday. I shall ask him to come early, that he may learn to know you better.”
“Thank you. I'd like to know him better. At what hour is he to come?”
“By 3:30, at least,” she said, pointedly. “Too early to be correct, you suspect?”
“I think not. You may expect me before three. I am not a stickler for form.”
“We shall not serve tea until four o'clock,” she said, coldly.
“That's my hour for tea—just my hour,” he said, blithely. She could not repress the smile that his old willfulness brought to her lips and eyes.
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