“Bertha’s all right; she’s pretty too.”
“She’s very good and kind to you, I must say,” said Lady Kellynch. “As they have asked you so often, I think I should like you to pay her a nice little attention to-day, dear. Take her a pretty basket of flowers.”
Clifford’s handsome dark face became overclouded with boredom.
“Oh, good Lord, mother! can’t you telephone to a florist and have it sent to her, if she’s got to have vegetables?”
“But surely, dear, it would be nicer for you to take it.”
“Oh, mother, it would be awful rot, carting about floral tribs in a taxi all over London.”
“Floral tribs? What are floral tribs? Oh, tributes! I see! In a taxi! No. I never dreamt of your doing such a thing. Ridiculous extravagance! Go from Kensington to Sloane Street in a taxi!”
“How did you suppose I’d take it, then?”
“I supposed you’d walk,” said Lady Kellynch, in a frightened voice.
“Walk! Great Scott! Walk with a basket of flowers! What next! I didn’t know you were bringing me up as a messenger-boy. No, mother, I’m too old to be a boy scout, or anything of that sort. What have you got Warden for? Why don’t you send the footman? But far the most sensible way is to ring up the place itself, and give the order.”