Girl turning into Lola Craven. An heiress on a gate. What would Drewitt say? Of all the weird, fantastical, incomprehensible
"I beg your pardon." Suddenly he became conscious that she was looking at him as if waiting for some explanation. "You see I've heard a lot about you."
"About me?"
"Yes. Lady Drewitt is my aunt, and Drew, that is, Lord Drewitt, is my cousin."
"Ooooooh!" she said slowly, surprised in turn.
"I wonder if that is why the manager came up to ask how I was," he said half to himself.
"You wonder if what was why?" she asked, apparently unconscious of any violence to syntax.
"Well, he certainly wouldn't have been interested in me for my own sake; but as a fr an acquaintance," he corrected, "of Miss Craven, he might" He stopped suddenly as if conscious of a change in his companion. A shadow seemed to pass over her face.
"I wish"
"Please just go on being the Rain-Girl, will you?" he asked simply.
She looked up, smiled a little sadly, and then nodded.
"I think we had better be getting back," she said, and there was something in her tone that caused Beresford to curse wealth, heiresses, convention and all that went to build up the fabric of civilisation and progress.
