“Of what,” she asked brightly.
“Of the art of the Stone Age, he said. I don’t know what he meant.”
Muriel flushed. “The little beast!” she cried, angrily. “He was trying to be rude.”
“Rude, was he?” said Rupert, viciously. He assumed a fighting attitude, and, when Muriel had frankly explained the insinuation of the remark, he set his teeth and made a determined attempt to appear grim.
“He’ll get one in the jaw, if he doesn’t look out,” he muttered.
Lord Blair re-entered the room, carrying the letter (for some unknown reason) extended in his thumb and first finger as though it smelt. He paused on seeing Rupert’s simulation of pugilism, and looked at him critically, as it were measuring the young man’s capacities in that arena. Then he shook his head sadly, and handed him the letter.
When Rupert had left them, Lord Blair turned to his daughter. “Undersized,” he murmured, “sadly undersized.”
“Oh, not so very,” said Muriel, divining his thoughts. “And, any way, he’s a good-looking boy, and his manners are charming. I’m growing very fond of Rupert.”
Lord Blair glanced at her quickly.