Ferdinand Arundel.
She stared. Nothing in the way of being followed surprised her
any more, but that he should have discovered where she was surprised
her. Her mother had promised faithfully to tell no one.
"You?" she said, feeling betrayed. "Here?"
He came up to her and took off his hat. His forehead beneath the
hat was wet with the beads of unaccustomed climbing. He looked ashamed
and entreating, like a guilty but devoted dog.
"You must forgive me," he said. "Lady Droitwich told me where
you were, and as I happened to be passing through on my way to Rome I
thought I would get out at Mezzago and just look in and see how you
were."
"But--didn't my mother tell you I was doing a rest-cure?"
"Yes. She did. And that's why I haven't intruded on you earlier
in the day. I thought you would probably sleep all day, and wake up
about now so as to be fed."
"But--"
"I know. I've got nothing to say in excuse. I couldn't help
myself."
"This," thought Scrap, "comes of mother insisting on having
authors to lunch, and me being so much more amiable in appearance than
I really am."
She had been amiable to Ferdinand Arundel; she liked him--or
rather she did not dislike him. He seemed a jovial, simple man, and
had the eyes of a nice dog. Also, though it was evident that he
admired her, he had not in London grabbed.
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