"What's a Catford Rathbone?"
"Dear mamma!" she laughed. "It's quite a good old family. One of the untitled aristocracy."
"I thought you told me his father was a farmer?"
"No, dear—that's a little mistake. I told you his father had taken to farming—as a hobby. Besides, that's just what I mean—a fine old yeoman stock—the backbone of the country."
"Why are you praising up this Mr. Backbone—or Rathbone—so much? Is he in love with you?"
Flora laughed coquettishly, putting on her Russian Princess manner. It was voluble, disdainful, and condescending. She often changed, quite suddenly, from an ingénue to a grande dame, and then to an adventuress and back again before you knew where you were.
"Of course he's in love with me. What of that? Poor boy, he must take his chance like the others! 'La violette double, double——' Oh, I forgot, dear. I beg your pardon."
"What's he coming here for?" pursued the relentless mother.
Miss Luscombe now became a soubrette of a somewhat hooligan type, and pretended to throw a little feather duster she was holding into the depths of the arm-chair.
"That remains to be seen. But I'm a girl who knows how to take care of herself. I shall keep him in his place, old dear. Don't you worry."