"By the bye," the Marchioness asked him, "have you a Christian name?"
"Sorry," Wingrave answered, "if I ever had, I've forgotten it."
"Then I must call you Wingrave," she remarked. "I hate calling anyone I know decently
well Mr. anything."
"Charmed," Wingrave answered; "it isn't a bad name."
"It isn't," she admitted. "By the bye," she continued, looking at him critically, "you are
rather a surprising person, aren't you?"
"Glad you've found it out," Wingrave answered. "I always thought so."
"One associates all sorts of terrible things with millionaires--especially African and
American ones," she remarked. "Now you could pass anywhere for the ordinary sort of
decent person."
"I was told the other day," he remarked reflectively, "that if I would only cultivate two
things, I might almost pass as a member of the English aristocracy."
"What were they?" she asked rashly.
"Ignorance and impertinence," he answered.
The Marchioness was silent for a moment. There was a little more color than usual in her
beautiful cheeks and a dangerous glitter in her eyes.
"You can go home, Mr. Wingrave," she said.
He rose to his feet imperturbably. The Marchioness stretched out a long white hand and
gently forced him back again.
"You mustn't talk like that to me," she said quietly. "I am sensitive."
"A privilege, I believe, of your order," he remarked.
