“You see, in a way, though she’s awfully rich—I suppose she’s a bit of a—you know what I mean—a sort of a nouveau riche. She wants to visit a few decent people, especially not too young.”
“Oh, indeed!”
“She says it’ll sort of pose her, and help her to get into society.”
“What curious things to say to a boy.”
“Oh, she’s awfully jolly, mother. She says everything that comes into her head. She’s ripping—I do like her.”
“Who was she?” asked his mother, with a rather chilling accent.
“I’m sure I don’t know who she was,” said the boy. “I can tell you who she is: she’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Good gracious me!”
“We had awful larks,” went on Clifford. “She played with us and Pickering’s kiddy sister. We danced the Tango and had charades. You can’t think what fun it was. And we had tableaux. Mrs. Pickering and I did a lovely tableau, ‘Death in the Desert.’ She fell down dead suddenly, on the sand, you know, and I was a vulture. I’m an awfully good vulture. And I vultured about and hopped round her for some considerable time.”
“Horrible!” cried Lady Kellynch. “Revolting! What an unpleasant subject for a game.”