“I can answer you definitely, that she did not,” replied Sir Ralph. “You have an altogether wrong impression of that lady—in my judgment.”
“Your judgment!” said Michael scornfully, as he ushered him out of the room.
XI
Lady Moya Was Curiously Unlike Herself
There was a greater reason for Sir Ralph’s perturbation than either he knew or Michael guessed. Both might have been enlightened, had they stood on Cannon Street Station one Sunday morning and seen the distress of Mr. Alphonso Blaxton as the big minute hand of the station clock grew nearer to nine. The guard was closing the doors of the carriages and the collector was preparing to shut the gate, when Moya came flying breathlessly through the barrier.
“Oh, I am so sorry!” she gasped; “my watch stopped.”
Mr. Alphonso Blaxton bundled her into an empty first-class carriage and jumped in himself as the train moved.
“There’s not another train for three hours,” he said severely.
“We could have gone to church.”
“What a mind!” said the young man in admiration. “I never thought of church!”
“Anyway, I didn’t lose the train,” she said tartly. “Have you brought everything?”
She looked round for the collapsible easel, the paint boxes and the paraphernalia which usually accompanied their sketching tours.
“I have brought nothing,” he said frankly.
“But how can you sketch?”
“I am not going to sketch,” he said. “I decided that it was too nice a day to waste.”
She looked up at him and laughed.
“You will never be an artist,” she said, suddenly severe. “To what part of the country are we going?”
“I thought we would go to Maidstone. There are some lovely drives from there. I’ve hired a motor car to meet us at the station and I thought we would go through Sussex and lunch at Seahampton.”
“Not Seahampton,” she said quickly; “my father is at Seahampton today.”
She might have added that Sir Ralph was also at Seahampton, but, for reasons of her own, she kept that information to herself because Sir Ralph was not a subject which she had found it necessary to discuss. She looked at her companion approvingly.
“You are ever so much more presentable than I have ever seen you, before,” she said, “and you have actually shaved! You are getting less and less like an artist every day.”
He had a peculiarly sweet smile and a laugh which was all bubbling youth and happiness. He laughed like a girl, indeed it nearly approached a giggle. He laughed now as the train sped through the suburban stations, stretched out his feet on the cushions opposite and searched for a cigarette. She watched him with glee as he produced, not the ornate case in which the men of her acquaintance carried the expensive products of Egypt and Syria, but a gaudy yellow carton containing fifty of the cheapest cigarettes that ever brought discredit to the fair State of Virginia.
“Do you like those things?” she asked.
“These ‘yellow perils’? Rather!”
“Your taste is awfully uncultivated, isn’t it?” she bantered; “why don’t you—” she abruptly attempted to change the subject by an incoherent reference to a cow which was gazing in a field by the side of the line.
“Why don’t I smoke gold-laced Machinopolos through an amber and diamond cigarette holder?” he suggested. “Because, little Moya, I am a poor hardworking artist who has been saving up all the week for this bust.”
“I am so sorry,” she said; “I am awfully thoughtless. Won’t you forgive me?”
“I won’t forgive you,” he said, “unless you keep in your mind the big fact that I am as immensely poor, as you are immensely rich.”
“Why should I keep that in my mind?” she asked.
“Because,” he said slowly, “until you are immensely poor or I am immensely rich we shall meet very occasionally and indulge in very infrequent busts.”
“But what difference does money make?” she faltered.
She found it difficult to speak plainly or even clearly. There was a lump in her throat which made her voice sound unnaturally hoarse. She had a strange sinking feeling within her and to her amazement she found the hand that she put up to brush back a stray curl trembling. She had never experienced any such sensation before. Her heart was thumping quickly; she was breathless, hot and cold by turns.
He did not answer. She was seated by his side and she could only see his face out of the corner of her eyes, then she felt his arm slipping about her and before she knew what had happened, his lips were pressed to hers.
This happened in a first-class railway carriage on a nonstop train. It had happened before to quite common people (as Moya had heard), but she never thought it would possibly happen to her, or that so vulgar a proceeding could be so wonderfully sweet.
Sir Ralph and Lord Flanborough had met the local authorities. There had been a lunch and speeches in which Sir Ralph had distinguished himself by likening the forthcoming arrival of the Austral-African mail ship to the return of Ulysses and the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. A wireless message from the ship stated that she did not expect to make harbour until nine o’clock in the evening, and this explained the earlier festivities. That they were of a sober and restricted nature, was explained by the fact that the day was Sunday. Later, it was intended that the sailings of the Austral-African line from Cape Town should be timed to bring the ships to port on the Saturday, but there had been no time to alter the arrangements for the Charter Queen had sailed before Lord Flanborough and Sir Ralph had definitely decided the date on which the new service should be inaugurated.
A few pressmen who had come down from London for the purpose, with certain directors and their wives, were shown over the docks; the new trains were admired and particularly
