“To Beecher’s Hill we will go by all means,” assented Helen. “I am quite in the humour for a nice stroll.”
“It’s a pretty steep stroll I can tell you! Don’t expect me to pull you up the hill.”
“I never expect any politeness from you, Geoffrey,” she replied with a smile. “What a lazy, good-for-nothing boy you are! Let us all go and get ready; by the time we start it will be nearly four o’clock.”
“But it would be madness to start now,” expostulated Alice; “think of toiling uphill in this broiling sun! Wait till it is a little cooler.”
“The walk in the sun will do Helen good. She wants severe exercise badly,” said Geoffrey, looking at her dispassionately. “If you were to put on a couple of sealskin jackets, Reginald’s poshteen, and my frieze ulster, you would be wise.”
“You are raving, my good Geoffrey! Too much dancing has affected your reason,” replied Mrs. Mayhew.
“I have method in my madness at any rate—the symmetry of your figure at heart,” responded the young man, with an air of deep interest.
“I’m not a bit stouter than Mrs. Russell, whom you profess to admire so much.”
“I don’t admire her at all! She is like a bolster tied in the middle,” remonstrated Geoffrey vehemently. “She has a figure like a cottage loaf.”
“You may as well make him a present of the last word, Helen,” observed Alice, taking her by the arm and leading her out of the room. “There is no use arguing with him, he has such a tongue, and he is utterly unscrupulous as to what he says.”