"It's quite a change to find Harry Tristram at a tea-party, though! Making himself pleasant too!"
"Not to me," observed Mina decisively.
"You chaffed him, I expect. He stands a bit on his dignity. Ah well, he's young, you see."
"No, he chaffed me. Oh, I think I—I left off even, you know."
"They get a bit spoilt." He seemed to be referring to the aristocracy. "But there's plenty of stuff in him, or I'm much mistaken. He's a born fighter, I think."
"I wonder!" said Mina, her eyes twinkling again.
Finally there was the Major to be walked home with—not a youthful triumphant Major, but a rather careworn, undisguisedly irritated one. If Mina wanted somebody to agree with her present mood about Harry Tristram, her longing was abundantly gratified. The Major roundly termed him an overbearing young cub, and professed a desire—almost an intention—to teach him better manners. This coincidence of views was a sore temptation to the Imp; to resist it altogether would seem superhuman.
"I should like to cut his comb for him," growled Duplay.
Whatever the metaphor adopted, Mina was in essential agreement. She launched on an account of how Harry had treated her: they fanned one another's fires, and the flames burnt merrily.