“I shouldn’t care to meet any of your model friends there,” said Hastings, smiling. “You know—my ideas are rather straitlaced—I suppose you would say, Puritanical. I shouldn’t enjoy it and wouldn’t know how to behave.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Clifford, but added with great cordiality—“I’m sure we’ll be friends although you may not approve of me and my set, but you will like Severn and Selby because—because, well, they are like yourself, old chap.”
After a moment he continued, “There is something I want to speak about. You see, when I introduced you, last week, in the Luxembourg, to Valentine—”
“Not a word!” cried Hastings, smiling; “you must not tell me a word of her!”
“Why—”
“No—not a word!” he said gaily. “I insist—promise me upon your honour you will not speak of her until I give you permission; promise!”
“I promise,” said Clifford, amazed.
“She is a charming girl—we had such a delightful chat after you left, and I thank you for presenting me, but not another word about her until I give you permission.”
“Oh,” murmured Clifford.
“Remember your promise,” he smiled, as he turned into his gateway.
Clifford strolled across the street and, traversing the ivy-covered alley, entered his garden.