"Julian is going to take you in to dinner, Miss Abbeway," the
Countess announced, "and I hope you will be kind to him, for he's
been out all night and a good part of the morning, too, shooting
ducks and talking nonsense with a terrible Socialist."
Lady Maltenby passed on. Julian, leaning on his stick, looked
down with a new interest into the face which had seldom been out
of his thoughts since their first meeting, a few weeks ago.
"Tell me, Mr. Orden," she asked, "which did you find the more
exhausting--tramping the marshes for sport, or discussing
sociology with your friend?"
"As a matter of fact," he replied, "we didn't tramp the marshes.
We stood still and got uncommonly wet. And I shot a goose, which
made me very happy."
"Then it must have been the conversation," she declared. "Is your
friend a prophet or only one of the multitude?"
"A prophet, most decidedly. He is a Mr. Miles Furley, of whom you
must have heard."
She started a little.
"Miles Furley!" she repeated. "I had no idea that he lived in
this part of the world."
"He has a small country house somewhere in Norfolk," Julian told
her, "and he takes a cottage down here at odd times for the
wild-fowl shooting."
"Will you take me to see him to-morrow?" she asked.
"With pleasure, so long as you promise not to talk socialism with
him."
"I will promise that readily, out of consideration to my escort.
I wonder how it is," she went on, looking up at him a little
thoughtfully, "that you dislike serious subjects so much.
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