"Now, now, now, Verona," she protested peevishly, "do let me a-lone! Why may I not eat my food? It is all I have to enjoy. You spoil my appetite; you always worry so. Here, Dog Darling! come and taste this lobstar cutlet—so good, dear! Why!" with a gasp of surprise, "he won't touch it!"
"Wise dog," said Verona, "he knows what agrees with him. I'm sure animals are more sensible about their food than we are. I must write out the cards for the dinner table now. We shall be thirty with these two men."
"Their flowers may as well be sent down for the table," suggested Madame (who dearly loved similar small economies). "Let me see, dear, the names," and she glanced over a half-sheet of paper. "Lord and Lady Bosworth, Monsieur and Madame de la Vallance, General Huntly, Prince Tossati—oh, by the way, my dear child, why were you so unkind to him to-day, leaving the poor fellow to carry your things, and lead about Dog Darling, whilst you walked off with a stranger? Better not do so again. He was hurt, I could see, he looked quite white with emotion!"
"Dearest auntie, he never could look white. His skin is the colour of café au lait when he turns pale—he merely becomes sallow."
"He is a handsome young fellow, with the blood of emperors in his veins."
"Maybe so, but he is as swarthy as a Moor. He might be Emperor of Morocco. His hair is lank, his eyes are two ink pools. I am sure he is a most estimable young man, who writes every day to his mother, but if we get up tableaux, I solemnly warn you that I shall certainly invite him to do Othello."
"O—ah, Verona, for shame of you! You prefer the red-haired young officer."
"Red hair—oh, oh!" she laughed. "You know very well, auntie, that I prefer no one."
"Because you are so hard to please—so proud! Pray, what is the difference between Tossati and Sir Horace's nephew?"
"Well, if you ask me, I should say, that one was a black prince, and the other a white man!"