“Papa’s got to go on to a party at the——,” she begun.
“There’s no hurry, my dear; no hurry at all,” interposed the Prince Consort.
“And, anyhow, I’m not going out, Muriel,” said Mrs Clinton. “I’m not asked there, you know.”
Yet Lady Troughton and I said “Good-bye.” The Prince Consort came downstairs with us, and made us renew our promises to procure his wife’s novel. “It’s really a striking book,” said he. “And, look here, Tom; just write her a line, and tell her how much you like it, will you? You’re sure to like it, you know.”
Lady Troughton stopped on the doorstep, and looked him full in the face. She said nothing; neither did he. But when they shook hands I saw her squeeze his. Then she was good enough to offer me a lift in her carriage, and I handed her in and followed myself. We drove a quarter of a mile or so in silence, and when we had gone thus far Lady Troughton made what appeared to me to be the only remark that could possibly be made.
“Poor little goose!” said Lady Troughton.
WHAT WAS EXPECTED OF MISS CONSTANTINE
I
“DO remember what’s expected of her!” cried my sister Jane.
It was not the first time that she had uttered this appeal; I daresay she had good cause for making it. I had started with the rude masculine idea that there was nothing expected—and nothing in particular to be expected—of the girl, except that she should please herself and, when the proper time came, invite the rest of us to congratulate her on this achievement.