I said that such a tribute was only natural.
“And it’s selling wonderfully too,” she went on. “You may imagine how much obliged Vincents’ are to me for sending him there!”
“Did you know he was doing it?” I asked.
“Oh, I knew he was working at something. Muriel used to be always chaffing him about it.”
“She doesn’t chaff him now, I should think.”
“No,” said Mrs Clinton, twisting a ring on her finger round and round. Suddenly the group opened, and the Prince Consort came through, leading Muriel by the hand. He marched across the room, followed by his admirers. I rose, and he stood close by his wife, and began to talk about her last novel. He said that it was wonderfully clever, and told us all to get it and read it. Everybody murmured that such was their intention, and a lady observed:
“How charming for you to be able to provide your husband with recreation, Mrs Clinton!”
“Papa doesn’t care about novels much, really,” said Muriel.
“You do, I suppose, young lady?” asked someone.
“I like papa’s book better,” the child answered, and we all laughed, Mrs Clinton leading the chorus with almost exaggerated heartiness.