AN UNCOUNTED HOUR
We were standing, Lady Mickleham and I, at a door which led from the morning room to the terrace at The Towers. I was on a visit to the historic pile (by Vanbrugh—out of the money accumulated by the third Earl—Paymaster to the Forces—temp. Queen Anne). The morning room is a large room. Archie was somewhere in it. Lady Mickleham held a jar containing pate de foie gras; from time to time she dug a piece out with a fork and flung the morsel to a big retriever which was sitting on the terrace. The morning was fine, but cloudy. Lady Mickleham wore blue. The dog swallowed the pate with greediness.
“It’s so bad for him,” sighed she; “but the dear likes it so much.”
“How human the creatures are,” said I.
“Do you know,” pursued Lady Mickleham, “that the Dowager says I’m extravagant. She thinks dogs ought not to be fed on pate de foie gras.”
“Your extravagance,” I observed, “is probably due to your having been brought up on a moderate income. I have felt the effect myself.”
“Of course,” said Dolly, “we are hit by the agricultural depression.”
“The Carters also,” I murmured, “are landed gentry.”
“After all, I don’t see much point in economy, do you, Mr. Carter?”