"But I am," she persisted. "It's such an absurd romance--this
of mine, so absurd that you'll laugh at it, just at first. And
then--afterwards--you will--disapprove."
"My dear girl," he said, "you have never entertained the smallest regard
for my opinion before. Why begin to-day?"
She laughed a little, turning from him to brush away her tears.
"Sit down," she said, "and--and smoke--those horrid strong cigarettes of
yours. I love the smell. Perhaps I'll try and tell you. But--mind,
Jack--you're not to look at me. And you're not to say a single word till
I've done. Just--smoke, that's all."
She settled herself on the low fender-cushion with her face turned from
him to the fire. Lord Babbacombe sat down as she desired, and took out
and lighted a cigarette.
As the scent of it reached her she began to speak in the high, American
voice he had come to love. There was nothing piercing about it; it was a
clear, sweet treble.
"It happened when I was travelling under Aunt Bathurst's wing. You know,
it was with her and my cousin Archie that I first did Europe. My! It was
a long time ago! I've been round the world four times since then--twice
with poor dear Daddy, once with Mrs. Archie, after he died, and the last
time--alone. And I didn't like that last time a mite. I was like the man
in _The Pilgrim's Progress_--I took my hump wherever I went. Still, I
had to do something.
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