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He had been Ancoats's friend at Cambridge, and was now disporting himself in the Guards, but still more as Letty of course assumed in the heart of the English well-born world. She knew that he was Lord Naseby, and that some day he would be a marquis. A halo, therefore, shone about him.
"Don't think of it," she said at last, urgently, as they walked along. "It is too bad; as if there were not enough!" Maxwell stood still, with a little smile, and put his arm round her shoulders. "Dear, I shall soon have time enough, probably, to think about Ancoats's affairs or anything else. Do you know that I was planning this morning what we would do when we go out?
All the flitting scenes of the past month, Ancoats's half-vicious absurdities, the humours of the Trouville beach, the waves of its grey sea, his mother's whims and plaints, the crowd and heat of the little German watering-place where he had left her was it he, George Tressady, that had been really wrestling with these things and persons, walking among them, or beside them?
Betty's thoughts, however, had once more slipped away from her immediate neighbours, and were pursuing more exciting matters, the state of Madeleine Penley's heart and the wiles of that witch-woman in London, who must be somehow plucked like a burr from Ancoats's skirts, when Marcella entered the room, hat in hand. "Whither away, fair lady?" cried Betty; "come and talk to me."
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