The electricity behind a million prisms up aloft was well shaded, and the six dozen candles amid the pictures and bric-à-brac were half-smothered in pink frills. Moreover, Kneedrock had just come in and was still some distance off. Yet the frown was clearly seen.
"Oh, I didn't mean Darling. I didn't mean Darling at all," the duchess corrected quickly.
"We—we were speaking of Caryll," explained Lady Bellingdown, her hand upon the teapot's handle. "We're all thinking of him, you know. He'll be here now—any minute."
"I don't see why you asked him," growled Kneedrock roughly, as was a cousin's privilege. "He'll get no comfort here."
"Nina, remember," reminded the duchess, very interested in her bread and butter.
Then the noble viscount growled at her grace. "He'll get no comfort out of Nina. She'll chew him up alive and throw back the bones, as a snake does."
"Oh dear!" put in Lady Kitty deprecatingly. "You're always so hard upon her."
"It's Nibbetts's way," soothed the duchess, looking very kindly at him. In spite of a lingering unkemptness, he was indeed a fine object to view—massive and leonine. "He always puts things a bit boldly."
"Boldly?" he echoed. "Ugh! Why, the fellow, you know, is all knocked up. Can't go anywhere. Has been off spearing fish for a month, quite alone. And then you ask him here and throw him to Nina's teeth and claws. Ha!"
A minute before the comparison was ophidian, now it was feline. He was nearly as bad as Dinghal.