‘I have had a few books down from town. It is desirable to know a little about the architecture of one’s own house.’ She remained looking at the torn drawing, when Somerset, observing on the table the particle of swan’s-down he had found in the chair, gently blew it so that it skimmed across the table under her eyes. ‘It looks as if it came off a lady’s dress,’ he said idly. ‘Off a lady’s fan,’ she replied. ‘O, off a fan?’ ‘Yes; off mine.’ At her reply Somerset stretched out his hand for the swan’s-down, and put it carefully in his pocket-book; whereupon Paula, moulding her cherry-red lower lip beneath her upper one in arch self-consciousness at his act, turned away to the window, and after a pause said softly as she looked out, ‘Why did you not accept our invitation to dinner?’ It was impossible to explain why. He impulsively drew near and confronted her, and said, ‘I hope you pardon me?’ ‘I don’t know that I can quite do that,’ answered she, with ever so little reproach. ‘I know why you did not come--you were mortified at not being asked sooner! But it was purely by an accident that you received your invitation so late. My aunt sent the others by post, but as yours was to be delivered by hand it was left on her table, and was overlooked.’ Surely he could not doubt her words; those nice friendly accents were the embodiment of truth itself. ‘I don’t mean to make a serious complaint,’ she added, in injured tones, showing that she did. ‘Only we had asked nearly all of them to meet you, as the son of your illustrious father, whom many of my friends know personally; and--they were disappointed.’ It was now time for Somerset to be genuinely grieved at what he had done. Paula seemed so good and honourable at that moment that he could have laid down his life for her. ‘When I was dressed, I came in here to ask you to reconsider your decision,’ she continued; ‘or to meet us in the drawing-room if you could not possibly be ready for dinner. But you were gone.’ ‘And you sat down in that chair, didn’t you, darling, and remained there a long time musing!’ he thought. But that he did not say. ‘I am very sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Will you make amends by coming to our garden party? I ask you the very first.’ ‘I will,’ replied Somerset. To add that it would give him great pleasure, etc., seemed an absurdly weak way of expressing his feelings, and he said no more. ‘It is on the nineteenth. Don’t forget the day.’ He met her eyes in such a way that, if she were woman, she must have seen it to mean as plainly as words: ‘Do I look as if I could forget anything you say?’ She must, indeed, have understood much more by this time--the whole of his open secret. But he did not understand her. History has revealed that a supernumerary lover or two is rarely considered a disadvantage by a woman, from queen to cottage-girl; and the thought made him pause. XIV.