"He's very nice, I assure you, my dear. Not an ounce of fat on him. All bone and sinew and nerve."
"And—a Yankee," added the duchess belittlingly.
"A free-born American," corrected her great-niece, "and with the loveliest accent. You should hear him say: 'Evah at you' se'vice, Miss' Dahling.' You'd fall in love with him yourself."
"And this aviator person is yours exclusively?"
"Undividedly. Isn't it nice?"
"I think I should prefer Nibbetts myself; or Sir George Grey, or—well, scores I could name."
"I dare say. You married the duke. Your taste speaks for itself, dear aunt."
Though the duchess made no retort, she appeared annoyed. She poured herself a fresh cup of tea and sipped it in silence. Nina opened her paper.
She was still turning the pages when his grace sauntered over, halted, and gazed for a moment at the spread tea-table. He was small, bald and peaked, with tiny black eyes like shoe-buttons.
"There isn't any seed-cake," he complained. "I can't take tea without seed-cake. You know I never take tea without seed-cake, do I, Doody?" Doody was his pet name for his duchess.