“Good-morrow, Madam.” Kitty swept a curtsy to mark her distance, the while my Lord kissed the creature’s hand, positively as if he liked doing so, and him but out of such a tantrum as never was.
“And what should bring me to Cheltenham—(no, my Lord, pray. I prefer the little stool. I do indeed)—why should not poor little me be here with the rest?”
“Why, indeed?” growled Kilcroney.
“And what has brought you, my Lady, if one may inquire?”
“She thought little Denis looked pale!” cried my Lord, and gave a great guffaw.
“You may laugh, Madam,” said Kitty, as Mrs. Lafone tinkled delicately. “There are feelings which only a mother can understand.”
Mistress Lafone was childless.
“One excuse will serve as well as another.” My Lord let himself fall into a chair that creaked threateningly beneath his weight.
“Oh, I seek for no excuse,” quoth Molly Lafone. Crouching on the low stool, she had a singular air of astuteness, in spite of her fostered childishness. “I never can understand why people should not tell the truth.” She raised arch eyes towards my Lord, while Kitty sat with the majesty of an Eastern idol, and had not as much as the quiver of an eyelash.
“I’m here to curry favour with royalty,” she laughed again sweetly, “like the rest of us!”