She could not help recalling the manner in which she had been invariably received in New York on her return from any journey, how she was met by comfortable, merry people and taken care of at once.

This was so strange, it was so queer, so different.
"Oh, never mind, Nigel dear," she said at last, with innocent indiscretion.

"It doesn't really matter, you know." Sir Nigel turned upon her a blaze of haughty indignation.
"If you'll pardon my saying so, it does matter," he said.

"It matters confoundedly.

Be good enough to take your place in the carriage." He moved to the carriage door, and not too civilly put her in.