To his unspeakable relief, Leslie was in her most cheerful mood throughout dinner, and the thought of Fabrian Gilder seemed to have been effectively banished.
“Leslie,” he asked, after the coffee had been served, “I want you to do me a great favour.”
She looked at him across the table, doubt in her eyes.
“Do you remember Mary Wenner, who used to be Harry’s secretary?”
She nodded.
“Yes. Dick doesn’t like her very much; he was telling me the other day----”
“Never mind what Dick likes or dislikes,” he said testily. “Great heavens! Are our lives to be run according to his fancies? I’m very sorry,” he apologized with a laugh, “but you’ll have to forgive me--I’m rather nervous to-night.”
“What about Mary Wenner?” she asked.
“I was wondering whether you would like to ask her down here to stay a week-end? I shall have a lot of work to do, and she’s a very excellent stenographer. But I’ll be perfectly frank with you and tell you that that is not the only reason I’d like you to invite her. She’s been in some kind of scrape and I want to help her through.”
Leslie Gwyn was not curious, or she might have questioned him more about this mythical trouble.
“I don’t know why she shouldn’t come,” she said. “If you’ll give me her address I will write to her. I rather fancy that Dick’s main objection to her is that she had some sort of attachment for Harry.”
“She’s almost forgotten Harry,” smiled her brother. “To be perfectly candid, I like the girl. She’s not a lady, of course, but ‘lady’ nowadays is a vague and meaningless term. And there was really nothing in her affair with Harry. I mean it was not serious.”
“I’ve never thought so,” said the girl, and thereupon the question of Mary Wenner was dismissed.
He had, he said, some work to do that night, and left her alone in the drawing-room, and for once she did not find time hanging very heavily upon her hands. Ordinarily the prospect of an evening spent alone would have seemed intolerably dull, but she had so much to think about, so many perspectives to adjust, that she rather welcomed her solitude.
Even at so short a distance of time, her experience with Fabrian Gilder seemed grotesquely unreal. Perhaps she was still numb from the shock of it, for, going over that unpleasant feature incident by incident, she could be neither angry nor amused. Perhaps she was a little afraid--she still felt the pressure of his strong hands upon her, still saw the gray fires that burnt in his eyes. And Dick--how natural it had been to go to him--how safe she had felt! Would it have been the same if Harry Chelford had providentially arrived? She was sure in her mind that she would not have run to Harry, or found comfort in his encircling arms.
She looked at the clock; it was ten minutes after nine. Dick would be back at Fossaway Manor by now, and she went out into the hall and, taking off the receiver of the telephone, gave a number.
Arthur’s study door opened into the hall, and he came out.
“To whom are you telephoning?” he asked suspiciously.
“I’m calling up Fossaway Manor,” she said.
“You’re not going to invite Dick Alford over, are you?” he demanded resentfully.
Before she could reply, he heard the ring of a bell in the servants’ quarters and she ran to the door. Through the glass panel she saw the gleam of a white shirt-front on the unlighted porch, and switched on the lights. It was Dick, and, with an oath, Arthur Gwyn flung back into his room and slammed the door. He had hoped that Dick had forgotten his threat to call that night.
“Enter, Richard of Chelford!” said the girl dramatically, as she threw open the door. “I was just ’phoning to you. I’m bored to extinction and I want amusing.”
Which was not true.
“I don’t feel at all amusing,” said Dick, as he closed the door and hung up his cap on the hat-rack.
She took him by the arm and led him into the drawing-room.
“Arthur is invisible to-night; he is working very hard. He doesn’t approve of you, and you hardly approve of him, so we sha’n’t be interrupted! Dick, it was lovely of you to arrive as you did this afternoon.”
“Gilder proposed to you, I understand?” said Dick quietly.
“Did he tell you?” She fetched a long sigh. “Yes; I was amazed. I suppose it was very complimentary, but why did he do it in such a great hurry, do you think?”
Dick took a cigarette from the box she offered him and lit it before he replied.
“That is exactly what I’ve come to discover,” he said. “I feel rather like a grand inquisitor, but I must know.”
“And I can’t tell you.”
She was acting. He knew that her one object was to turn him from an interview with her brother, and she in turn knew that her efforts would be in vain.
“You had no hint of this precious proposal in advance? Arthur told you nothing?”
“No; Arthur couldn’t possibly have known. He told me that Mr. Gilder wanted us to see his new flat, and although it was a great bore going out to tea with somebody one doesn’t know, I went----”
“To oblige Arthur, of course?”
“No,” she insisted; “you must credit me with a reasonable amount of feminine curiosity. Bachelors’ establishments intrigue me. Your one drawback, from my point of view, is that you’ve only a poky little office and, I presume, a wretched little servant’s bedroom.”
“For a second son I’m rather well off,” said Dick with a quizzical smile. “You are sure Arthur didn’t give you any forewarning of this proposal?”
“Absolutely sure. He was as much astonished as I was.”
“Have you discussed it with him?” he asked quickly.
She hesitated.
“Yes, I spoke about it in the car on the way down, and Arthur was rather--astonished.”
“Only astonished--not furious?”
“He may have been furious, too. Arthur doesn’t carry his heart on his sleeve.”
“I should imagine not,” said Dick drily, and then: “Will you ask him if I can see him for five minutes?”
She looked at him with troubled eyes.
“You’re not going to quarrel, are you, Dick?”
He shook his head.
“No, I’m going to ask him a question or two. You realize that I’m entitled to know.”
“Why are you ‘entitled’?”
“Don’t you think I am?” he asked gently.
Her eyes went up to his for a second, and then dropped, as she read something there that thrilled and hurt her. Without a word she went out into the hall and knocked at Arthur’s door.
“What does he want? I can’t be bothered to-night,” said Arthur Gwyn fretfully. “What a fellow he is for interrupting people when they’re busy!”
“I think you’d better see him, Arthur,” she said, and added: “And get it over.”
He shot a quick glance at her.
“What do you mean--get what over?” he asked.
“Whatever there is to get over,” said Leslie quietly.
Arthur looked down at the picturesque confusion of papers that covered his library table.
