"I hate calling anyone
I know decently well Mr. anything."
"Charmed," Wingrave answered; "it isn't a bad name."
"It isn't," she admitted. "By the bye," she continued, looking at him
critically, "you are rather a surprising person, aren't you?"
"Glad you've found it out," Wingrave answered. "I always thought so."
"One associates all sorts of terrible things with
millionaires--especially African and American ones," she remarked.
"Now you could pass anywhere for the ordinary sort of decent person."
Wingrave nodded.
"I was told the other day," he remarked reflectively, "that if I would
only cultivate two things, I might almost pass as a member of the
English aristocracy."
"What were they?" she asked rashly.
"Ignorance and impertinence," he answered.
The Marchioness was silent for a moment. There was a little more color
than usual in her beautiful cheeks and a dangerous glitter in her
eyes.
"You can go home, Mr. Wingrave," she said.
He rose to his feet imperturbably. The Marchioness stretched out a
long white hand and gently forced him back again.
"You mustn't talk like that to me," she said quietly. "I am
sensitive."
He bowed.
"A privilege, I believe, of your order," he remarked.
"Of course, if you want to quarrel--" she began.
"I don't," he assured her.
"Then be sensible! I want to talk to you."
"Sensible, alone with you!" he murmured. "I should establish a new
record.
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