“Is that right, Dinny?”
“No. When the balls touch you just go on playing, but you mustn’t move Lady Henrietta’s ball, Auntie, in hitting your own.”
“I said so,” said Lady Henrietta.
“Of course you said so, Hen. Nice position I’m in. Well, I shall just agree to differ and go on,” and Aunt Wilmet hit her ball through a hoop, moving her opponent’s several inches in so doing.
“Isn’t she an unscrupulous woman?” murmured Lady Henrietta, plaintively, and Dinny saw at once the great practical advantages inherent in ‘agreeing to differ.’
“You’re like the Iron Duke, Auntie,” she said, “except that you don’t use the word ‘damn’ quite so often.”
“She does,” said Lady Henrietta; “her language is appalling.”
“Go on, Hen!” said Aunt Wilmet in a flattered voice.
Dinny left them and retired towards the house.
When she was dressed she went to Fleur’s room.
Her aunt’s maid was passing a minute mowing-machine over the back of Fleur’s neck, while Michael, in the doorway of his dressing-room, had his fingers on the tips of his white tie.
Fleur turned.
“Hallo, Dinny! Come in, and sit down. That’ll do, thank you, Powers. Now, Michael.”
The maid faded out and Michael advanced to have a twist given to the ends of his tie.
“There!” said Fleur; and, looking at Dinny, added: “Have you come about Saxenden?”
“Yes. I’m to read him bits of Hubert’s diary to-night. The question is: Where will be suitable to my youth and—”
“Not innocence, Dinny; you’ll never be innocent, will she, Michael?”
Michael grinned. “Never innocent but always virtuous. You were a most sophisticated little angel as a kid, Dinny; looked as if you were wondering why you hadn’t wings. Wistful is the word.”
“I expect I was wondering why you’d pulled them off.”
“You ought to have worn trouserettes and chased butterflies, like the two little Gainsborough girls in the National Gallery.”
“Cease these amenities,” said Fleur; “the gong’s gone. You can have my little sitting-room next door, and, if you knock, Michael can come round with a boot, as if it were rats.”
“Perfect,” said Dinny; “but I expect he’ll behave like a lamb, really.”
“You never can tell,” said Michael; “he’s a bit of a goat.”
“That’s the room,” said Fleur, as they passed out. “Cabinet particulier. Good luck!…”
CHAPTER 10
Seated between Hallorsen and young Tasburgh, Dinny had a slanting view of her Aunt and Lord Saxenden at the head of the table, with Jean Tasburgh round the corner on his right. “She was a ‘leopardess’ oh! so fair!” The tawnied skin, oblique face, and wonderful eyes of the young woman fascinated her. They appeared also to fascinate Lord Saxenden, whose visage was redder and more genial than Dinny had seen it yet. His attentions to Jean, indeed, were throwing Lady Mont to the clipped tongue of Wilfred Bentworth. For ‘the Squire,’ though a far more distinguished personality, too distinguished to accept a peerage, was, in accordance with the table of precedence, seated on her left. Next to him again Fleur was engaging Hallorsen; so that Dinny herself was exposed to the broadside of young Tasburgh. He talked easily, directly, frankly, like a man not yet calloused by female society, and manifested what Dinny described to herself as ‘transparent admiration’; yet twice at least she went into what he described as a ‘near-dream,’ her head turned high, and motionless, towards his sister.
“Ah!” he said. “What do you think of her?”
“Fascinating.”
“I’ll tell her that, she won’t turn a hair. The earth’s most matter-of-fact young woman. She seems to be vamping her neighbour all right. Who is he?”
“Lord Saxenden.”
“Oh! And who’s the John Bull at the corner on our side?”
“Wilfred Bentworth, ‘the Squire,’ they call him.”
“And next to you—talking to Mrs. Michael?”
“That’s Professor Hallorsen from America.”
“He’s a fine-looking chap.”
“So everybody says,” said Dinny, drily.
“Don’t you think so?”
“Men oughtn’t to be so good-looking.”
“Delighted to hear you say that.”
“Why?”
“It means that the ugly have a look in.”
“Oh! Do you often go trawling?”
“You know, I’m terribly glad I’ve met you at last.”
“At last? You’d never even heard of me this morning.”
“No. But that doesn’t prevent you from being my ideal.”
“Goodness! Is this the way they have in the Navy?”
“Yes. The first thing they teach us is to make up our minds quickly.”
“Mr. Tasburgh—”
“Alan.”
“I begin to understand the wife in every port.”
“I,” said young Tasburgh, seriously, “haven’t a single one. And you’re the first I’ve ever wanted.”
“Oo! Or is it: Coo!”
“Fact! You see, the Navy is very strenuous. When we see what we want, we have to go for it at once. We get so few chances.”
Dinny laughed. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Then you weren’t at Zeebrugge?”
“I was.”
“I see. It’s become a habit to lay yourself alongside.”
“And get blown up for it.”
Her eyes rested on him kindly.
“I am now going to talk to my enemy.”
“Enemy? Can I do anything about that?”
“His demise would be of no service to me, till he’s done what I want.”
“Sorry for that; he looks to me dangerous.”
“Mrs. Charles is lying in wait for you,” murmured Dinny, and she turned to Hallorsen, who said deferentially: “Miss Cherrell,” as if she had arrived from the moon.
“I hear you shot amazingly, Professor.”
“Why! I’m not accustomed to birds asking for it as they do here. I’ll maybe get used to that in time. But all this is quite an experience for me.”
“Everything in the garden lovely?”
“It certainly is. To be in the same house with you is a privilege I feel very deeply, Miss Cherrell.”
“‘Cannon to right of me, cannon to left of me!’” thought Dinny.
“And have you,” she asked, suddenly, “been thinking what amend you can make to my brother?”
Hallorsen lowered his voice.
“I have a great admiration for you, Miss Cherrell, and I will do what you tell me. If you wish, I will write to your papers and withdraw the remarks in my book.”