“It’s queer I never noticed it before,” remarked the old Major, apparently more to himself than to the girl confronting him.
“Noticed what?” asked Teddie.
“How you’re getting a bit like your mater,” replied the placid-eyed old gentleman in the armchair, “a bit tamed and trimmed off and ironed out!”
“I won’t be!” proclaimed Teddie, with quite unlooked-for passion, as she got up from her chair.
“But how, my dear, are you going to stop it?” asked the still equable old Major.
“I won’t get like that!” reiterated Teddie, looking for all the world like a second Artemisia confronting an army of embattled males. She stood there, as though expecting some retort from him. But he said nothing. He merely took out another cigarette, lighted it, and recovered his morning Herald from the grass at his feet. This he proceeded to peruse with studied unconcern, quite ignoring the young Artemisia still glowering at him over the edge of it. Then he looked up, with the ghost of a yawn.
“By the way, I saw the Commodore in town yesterday,” observed Teddie’s uncle as he leisurely turned a page. “He was telling me a queer thing about young West.”
“Indeed!” said Teddie, without moving.
“The Commodore was saying that Gerry’s going to marry that Rivers girl,” offhandedly announced the maculated old scoundrel in immaculate cricketer’s flannel.
He waited behind his paper, for several seconds. Then he heard a mirthless little laugh. Then he heard the contemptuous ejaculation of “That frump!” And then he heard quick steps along the marble walk that bisected the Terrace.