“I was a prude-a proper lady, I mean,” she corrected as his smile widened into a grin, “until I met you. It is you with your voluptuous harem girls and double-entendres and so on that has been the undoing of me.”

“I wouldn’t say you’re quite undone yet,” he said rather seriously, but he was never serious for long, and was soon back teasing her. “Have I not a dozen times hinted you off from rakes and roués, and pointed out the danger of an excess of flowers and diamonds?”

“Yes, and brought more mischief into my study than ever you kept out of it.”

“I do apologize for Ashington. I ought not to have inflicted that bore on you.”

“He is the least reprehensible person you have introduced me to.”

“God knows he is reprehensible enough.”

“If you pass me in the streets two years hence hanging on some Cit’s arm, wearing the title Phyrne, I hope you will feel at least a pang of guilt.”

“My sweet conscience, don’t say such appalling things to me,” he laughed uncomfortably. “Emotional blackmail is the lowest form of trick. Still, I had rather see you in that title than Mrs. Ashington. I would not think you so utterly lost to any chance of temporal happiness."

“I suspect our ideas of happiness are as divergent as those of love.”

“You are bringing me round to a more proper notion of love. You and Shilla between you. I remember what you said, and she might give me her views while I am at Finefields with her.”

“And Lady Malvern.”

“And Lord Malvern. Your baser nature obtrudes again, Prudence. I’ll escape before you make me sign a pledge of chastity, like a priest or nun. May I see you once again before I leave? Tomorrow…"

“Yes, surely.”

“Morning or afternoon-which is convenient for you?”

“Either one. Say morning.”

“Morning. Don’t I say it well? Obedient as a puppy, you see. Adieu, Prudence.”

She shook her head at his foolishness and they parted, restored to perfect amity and only an empty feeling of sadness clinging with Prudence at the prospect of her study being deprived of mischief in the near future. Looking around at it, she remembered their different visits- strange how it shrank to a prison when Ashington was there with the door wide open, and expanded to a universe when Dammler came in and closed the door behind him. She hardly knew what to make of this last visit. His anger was still not explained to her complete satisfaction. He obviously hated Ashington-she had not known that when the matter of the articles had arisen, but was coming to understand it after her evening at the drama lecture. She was beginning to dread the sight of Ashington herself, and his learning was impressing her less than formerly. Why was his company so dull, when he knew so much? But then, whose company would not be dull after Dammler? A vision of his laughing face floated before her eyes. She would always picture Dammler laughing. So happy, joking, even swearing when he shouldn’t before her, and saying outrageous things. But with a serious side, too-his charity girls, his talk now of politics, and leaving… He wouldn’t ask her to Longbourne, of course. Once he got away he’d forget her, find new friends. She was merely a part of one episode of his life-of this one spring. She’d never forget or regret it, never be the same person after knowing him and all the different aspects of life he had exposed her to. Well, she was the better for the experience, but how she dreaded the future.

Chapter 13

Dammler had every intention of calling on Miss Mallow before leaving for Finefields. To amuse her, he even drew up a ridiculous charter of behaviour, promising not to drink, gamble or so on during his visit, and intended to extract a similar document from her. He had it in his pocket when he went to see Murray to consult with him on business before leaving, and became involved in a longer meeting than he hoped for. It was suddenly lunch time, and too late to call on Prudence before afternoon. She had not seemed particular when he came, so he went to a club with Murray without a worry of missing her.

Back at Grosvenor Square, Prudence sat waiting impatiently, pretending to work while looking at the clock every ten minutes. What a fool I am, she thought. He will not come at all. It won’t be the first time he has broken an appointment. He had lied to me before too-she recalled his pretending to have read her book when she knew well he had given it to Hettie unread. As to saying he meant only to work at Finefields, that surely had not even been intended to be taken seriously. Why should he go to Finefields to work, when his own place would be more private, surely more agreeable for work. She felt her anger to be unfair. If a famous celebrity, a bachelor and a lord, chose to conduct his life in the same manner as his peers, who was she to take offence? It was impertinent of her to take such an officious interest in his private life, and impossible not to.

She was called to lunch, and before she left the table a note was given into her hands. Her heart hurried at receiving it, and settled back to a dull thud when she discovered the spiderly scrawl of Dr. Ashington.

“Which of your beaux is sending you a billet-doux?” Clarence asked.

“It is not a love letter, Uncle. It is from Dr. Ashington.”

“Wants to do another piece on you, does he?”

“No. It is a curious note. He wants me to meet him at Hatchard’s. What can it be, I wonder? It sounds quite urgent-’as soon as possible’-he ‘would not impose on my good nature but for knowing my interest in his work.’ It must be someone he wants me to meet-some writer, I suppose, or something of the sort.”

“Lord Dammler has not come yet,” Mrs. Mallow reminded her.

“No, he was to drop by this morning. Odd he did not come, but this sounds quite urgent. I think I must go. Perhaps-I hope I shall be back before Dammler comes.”

“We’ll ask him to stay,” Clarence assured her. “It will be a chance for him to see around my studio.”

Prudence dashed off without even finishing her lunch to Hatchard’s in her uncle’s carriage-always available to her when her errand involved a well-known person. Dr. Ashington awaited her at the door of the shop and asked her carriage to wait.

“Miss Mallow, how kind of you to come!” Ashington took her arm and led her inside.

“What is it you want, Doctor? Why did you ask me to come? I am agog with curiosity.”

“I should not have asked you. I feel guilty about it but I hoped you might help me out of a difficulty.”

“I shall be happy to if I can.” She was more curious by the minute. What could it be?

“The fact is, I brought Mama out to select some books, and she has taken a weak spell. She seldom leaves the house, and it was too much for her.”

“Oh, is she ill? I hope she has not fallen.”

“No, no, it is not that bad. Just a fainting spell, but the matter is, I have an appointment, and am unable to take her home. Her falling ill has detained us and upset our schedule.”

Prudence assumed he had an important meeting he must attend, and while she thought, when she saw his mother sitting at her ease and leafing through a novel, that she might safely have been sent home in a hackney, she was not entirely incensed. Ashington had been kind to her. She agreed with no ill humour to take his mother home, happy that she would be home within three-quarters of an hour herself, and not likely to miss Dammler. This always was at the back of her mind.

“I had planned to drop by your place later on,” Ashington added. “This will save me the trip.” He offered her a largish sheaf of papers. ‘These are some notes I have dashed off on my lecture the other night. You liked it, I hope?”

“Yes, it was very enlightening,” she congratulated, not for the first time, but she hoped for the last. She thought the notes were meant for her further perusal, and took them with a heavy heart.

“How kind of you to say so. I hope it shed some light on the subject. We are publishing it in the magazine next month.”

“I see. How very nice.” Why did he not wait and let her have a printed copy-easier to read than these notes, which were quite crossed out and jumbled up, with lines and arrows all over, and a disheartening number of footnotes, she saw at a glance.

“Again I must impose on your kindness. Would you be so good as to act as my amanuensis?”

“I beg your pardon?” The last word was not known to her.

"They need to be copied out. They are quite a mess, but you will sort them out. You are a clever girl.”

The meaning of the unknown word was becoming clear. “Do you mean you want me to copy them out?” she asked, her anger rising, and the full imposition of not only this but the use of her as a delivery woman for his mother also descending on her with clarity.

“If you will be so kind. Reading them will help settle it in your mind. There is a good deal of material there. It will be helpful to you.”

“Yes, a very good deal!” she said. “Too much for me to possibly copy I’m afraid.” She handed it back to him.

He did not seem to understand. “Oh not today, Miss Mallow. I will not need it for a day or two-do it at your leisure-a little break from your story writing.” He shoved it back at her.

With great firmness and a martial light in her eye there was no pretending to ignore she pushed the papers back.

“I do not copy out material any longer, Dr. Ashington. I finished with that some time ago.” During her talks she had mentioned to him her early work as a copier. “I know a few people who do that sort of work at four pence a page, if you would like their names.”

He was greatly offended. “Well! Well! This is gratitude, I must say,” he declared angrily.