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Looking round, she perceived that a little space in the crowded room had
been left vacant about them; nobody came up to her, no woman, in passing
by, signalled to Marchmont; the constant give-and-take of companions was
suspended in their favour. In fine, people supposed that they wanted to
talk to one another; it would not be guessed that one of the pair wished
Quisante to be the topic.
"He's got some brains," Marchmont went on, "though of rather a flashy
sort, I think. Dick Benyon's been caught by them. But a more impossible
person I never met. You don't like him?"
"Yes, I do," she answered defiantly. "At least I do every now and then."
"Pray make the occasions as rare as possible," he urged in his low lazy
voice, with his pleasant smile and a confidential look in his handsome
eyes. "And don't let them coincide with my presence."
"Really he won't hurt you; you're too particular."
"No, he won't hurt me, but I should feel rather as though he were
hurting you."
"What do you mean?"
"By being near you, certainly by being anything in the least like a
friend of yours.


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