“Hurrah!”
“Tito!” she remonstrated, thrusting her back with angry force.
“Well, Joe, you know as well as I do how fond I am of the pater; but—when the earl’s away, the family will play—bridge.”
“So you do now.”
“Only in a mild form—a couple of quiet rubbers after dinner, at farthing points. The pater looks upon daylight bridge as undignified and unseemly. Now he has departed, the drawbridge is down.”
“For mercy’s sake will ye talk sense?” cried Joseline.
“Certainly. Don’t I always talk sense? Mother is going to have her innings now, and she has invited a party of kindred spirits to spend a week, including—though she does not suspect it—her future son-in-law! Oh, yes, Joe, you may gape, but he arrives by the four o’clock train!” And Tito began to waltz around the room, with her hands on her hips.
“But who is he?” inquired Joseline, suddenly turning her back on the window, and surveying her companion with grave interest.
“Just what you might expect! A bad match, but everything else that is charming and desirable.”
“What do you call a bad match?”