“Is it like you, Miss Chivvey?”
“Oh, good gracious, I hope not! At least I hope I’m not like it! I don’t want to have a pretty picture, I’m sure. But Mimsie’s awfully clever. It’s sure to be all right. Do you know her? I must take you to her studio one day.”
“Thanks immensely,” said Rupert Denison, a little coolly. “But—it may seem odd to you, but I haven’t the slightest desire to increase my acquaintance at my age. In fact, do you know, I think I know quite enough people—in every set,” he added.
As he poured out some milk, she jumped and gave a little shriek.
“Oh, don’t do that. I never take milk. What a bad memory you’ve got! Funny place this, isn’t it?” She was looking round. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”
“Don’t you like the plan of it?” he said, looking round at the walls and ceiling. “It may not be perfect, but really, for London, it isn’t bad. It seems to me that anyone can see that it was designed by a gentleman.”
“You mean anyone can see it’s not designed by an architect?” she asked, with a laugh so loud that he raised a finger.
He then carefully introduced the subject of hats and advised her to go, for millinery, to Selfridge. They discussed it at length, and it was settled by his offering her a hat as a birthday present. She accepted, of course, with a loud laugh.
Rupert, with his mania for educating and improving young people, had begun, about a fortnight ago, trying to polish Miss Chivvey. But he had his doubts as to its being possible; and he was, all the same, beginning to be a little carried away. She was sometimes (he owned) amusing; and it was unusual for him to be laughed at. How differently Madeline regarded him!
However, he drove Moona home to Camden Hill and promised to meet her and help her to choose a hat.