‘I beg your pardon?’ said he, with an apologetic smile.
‘Oh,’ answered she, ‘I was only saying that men like you were invented to give dinners; you’re a sort of automatic feeding-machine. You ought to stand open all day. Really I often miss you at lunch time.’
‘My dear Beatrice!’ said Mrs Kennett Hipgrave, with that peculiar lift of her brows which meant, ‘How naughty the dear child is—oh, but how clever!’
‘It’s all right,’ said Hamlyn meekly. ‘I’m awfully happy to give you a dinner anyhow, Miss Beatrice.’
Now I had nothing to say on this subject, but I thought I would just make this remark:
‘Miss Hipgrave,’ said I, ‘is very fond of a dinner.’
Beatrice laughed. She understood my little correction.
‘He doesn’t know any better, do you?’ said she pleasantly to Hamlyn. ‘We shall civilise him in time, though; then I believe he’ll be nicer than you, Charley, I really do. You’re—’
‘I shall be uncivilised by then,’ said I.