— XVIII —THE UNINVITED GUEST
Lord Ifield was already seated at the breakfast-table when his hostess entered.
“So you’re here first,” she said.
“It looks like it. Any news of Alan?”
She shook her dainty head; he thought it was the daintiest he had ever seen; every time he saw her his conviction was strengthened. That morning, if, from his point of view, the thing was possible she was looking even prettier than usual. He told her so, with the frankness which was in keeping with his notions of how to bear himself in the presence of a woman he admired.
“You’re simply a radiant dream of beauty; I can’t think how you do it.” She half rose from her seat to bestow on him a mock bow in acknowledgement of what he intended for a compliment. “I’m in earnest. I can’t think how you do do it. How ma
