“Are you taking any?” said he, indicating the jug.
“I don’t see any fun in vulgarity,” observed Miss Bellairs.
The General smiled. Sir Roger’s lips assumed the shape for a whistle.
“That’s a nasty one for me,” said Laing.
“Ah, here you are, Roger,” exclaimed a fresh clear voice from behind the chairs. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. We’ve seen everything—Mr. Ellerton was most kind—and I do so want to tell you my impressions.”
The new-comer was Lady Deane, a tall young woman, plainly dressed in a serviceable cloth walking-gown. By her side stood Charlie Ellerton in a flannel suit of pronounced striping; he wore a little yellow mustache, had blue eyes and curly hair, and his face was tanned a wholesome ruddy-brown. He looked very melancholy.
“Letters from Hell,” murmured Sir Roger.
“But I was so distressed,” continued his wife. “Mr. Ellerton would gamble, and he lost ever so much money.”
“A fellow must amuse himself,” remarked Charlie gloomily, and with apparent unconsciousness he took a glass from Laing and drained it.
“Gambling and drink—what does that mean?” asked Sir Roger.