19

“I know what I wanted to ask you, Mr Pellerin,” said Mrs Shakeshaft, calling after him as he was going out to the terrace.

Pellerin, who had been behaving towards Mrs Shakeshaft as if she were no longer there, even at the dinner table, stopped and waited for her to speak. She was affable; her face reflected a look of amusement almost. “How did your little talk with Herbert go?” she said.

“It didn’t,” he replied. “I’ve not given it yet.”

“Oh?” She affected great surprise.

“I’ve been waiting for a suitable occasion.”

“Does it require that?” she said, looking perplexed.

“Everything requires the right occasion, the right time and place.”

She didn’t know what to reply to this; and he, not liking the strained silence, continued with, “There are young men, and young men. Some of Herbert’s age would laugh up their sleeves at such a talk unless one took them, so to speak, on a tour of the aberrations.”

He was conscious of having said something which, in view of the person to whom it was addressed, was audacious, indelicate even. He hardly dared to look at her. When he did so, he saw she was not looking at him, and her expression had taken on an almost frightened air.

“They know,” he continued, “the broad, conventional outline of the subject already, and one would only hold their attention by entering upon bizarre forms; but there are other young men—Herbert is such a young man, I think,—whose minds are so delicately poised that revelations of this kind could do untold harm, especially if hurriedly presented.”

“When are you going to tell him, then?” she said, speaking at last and looking at him with apprehension mingled with distaste.

“Soon,” he replied with a smile; “and may I leave it until tomorrow to tell you definitely?”

“Of course,” she said. And with this she left him.