Neither less nor more the dupe of vanity than most men of his years,
Lanyard rather liked to think of himself as one whom life had lessoned
out of all susceptibility to such emotions as that of surprise, a
creature of sophistication cynical but bland, weathered by arduous
experience and long contemplation of man the slave of folly and the
feeble sport of chance until nothing could amaze him. But this
contretemps (he couldn't count it better, remembering the genius of its
machinery) flawed the picture; Folly's accents with their more than
half-pretended petulance startled him awake to the fact that he had been
holding her hands for minutes, gaping like a zany, speechlessly
confounded.
"I don't believe you're glad to see me!"
"And I--I'm wondering if I am."
"That's not a very pretty speech," she pouted, tugging at her hands till
he had to resign them.
"But everything considered, not an unnatural one. You must know nothing
had prepared me . . ."
"That's good--because I'd be dreadfully cross if anything had spoiled
the surprise."
"Then you can't be cross with me at all."
"I don't know . . ." the young woman gravely doubted. Instinct with that
quenchless spirit of coquetry in default of which she had not been
Folly, she posed provocatively to him in the half-light of the window
behind her, head daintily aslant, elfin mischief glinting through the
dusk that masked her eyes. "I must say you might take it more kindly,
seeing how happy it makes me. You don't know how long you've kept me
waiting--I'd begun to be afraid you'd backed out of coming after all."
"Then you actually were expecting me for dinner?"
"Of course! without you it wouldn't really be a party."
So much for the suspicion that his escort had mistaken the way and
blundered into the wrong premises . . . Then it behooved him to have his
wits about him and beware of being misled into taking false steps on
such false ground.
"You're an arrant young baggage," Lanyard considered aloud.
"I know--but you're an old hand."
"Then cultivate a bit of reverence for my grey hairs, remember it's not
seemly to make mock of your elders."
"Come and sit down, then, beside me." With a chuckle of delight Folly
flitted back into the shadows from which she had come, plumped down upon
a settee, and patted its vacant cushions with a peremptory hand as
Lanyard more deliberately followed. "Do you always insist on having a
plot to explain why people request the honour of your presence at their
dinners?"
"I have a humble heart," Lanyard protested, sitting; "I am too much
mystified to understand why it's termed an honour . . ."
"You're a great bluff--I've told you before. You know very well, most of
the people one meets are incurably dull, whereas nothing can cure you of
being a most interesting person. That's one reason at least why you're
wanted."
"But you are dodging my question. Few people think it an honour to
entertain the Lone Wolf--even if they didn't entertain him unawares."
"I don't call that humour," Folly observed, critical. "You can't amuse
me by making believe you think I take any stock in all the rotten things
people say about you."
"Oh!" Lanyard blankly cried--"you really don't?"
"I should say not--know you better."
Her tone rang true enough, and Lanyard could detect nothing to
contradict it in the soft silhouette of her profile against the light.
"It makes me very happy, to think at least one person in the world has
faith in me, after all the villainy that's been charged to my account."
"That isn't fair," Folly retorted with spirit: "You never give your
friends credit--Morphy doesn't believe it, and neither does Peter."
"To be sure . . . Yes: naturally those two must have talked to you about
me."
"You don't suppose they'd have lured you out here to dinner without
first getting my permission, do you? If they hadn't, I'd hardly have
been so fussed about your being late."
"But that wasn't my fault. I didn't know where I was coming--I could
only comfort myself with the reminder that I was in the hands of--as
you point out--my friends."
"It doesn't matter. We arranged to make it a late dinner anyway; and
furthermore you're not the one who's kept it waiting. Morphy and Peter
didn't show up till about ten minutes ago. They had a breakdown or
something on the way."
"I was wondering . . ."
"They're upstairs in their rooms now, dressing."
"I hope they don't hurry," Lanyard confessed. "I can spare them a little
longer, need time to get my bearings."
"Poor dear!" Folly closed an impulsive hand over Lanyard's. "It _is_
horrid of me to plague you, isn't it? But you know how I love fun . . ."
She drew away and made herself prim and meek in her corner. "It's your
turn now, I'm perfectly well aware I've got questions by the broadside
coming. You may fire when ready."
"But I think you know too well what seems most strange to me . . ."
"All right. I don't mind telling . . . Yes: this is my place. No: I
don't own it, I just rent it furnished. From Peter Pagan. He's been such
a dear, let me have it for next to nothing for the Summer, and the most
perfect staff of servants thrown in."
"I'm sure that sounds just like him."
Lanyard meant it. Since it was manifest that Morphew and Pagan were
determined to pluck this poor foolish pigeon, and she was madly bent on
being plucked, certainly it had been their book to surround her with a
squad of servitors trained to their purpose.
"But that isn't what's most perplexing to you . . ."
"By no means."
"You're perfectly eaten alive by curiosity to know how Morphy got round
me, aren't you? Well! but how did he get round _you_?"