“I think not. I do not hunt foxes.”
“Probably we shall at all events meet in London,” said Travers. “I think, after long rustication, that a season or two in the bustling capital may be a salutary change for mind as well as for body; and it is time that Cecilia were presented and her court-dress specially commemorated in the columns of the ‘Morning Post.’”
Cecilia was seemingly too busied behind the tea-urn to heed this reference to her debut.
“I shall miss you terribly,” cried Travers, a few moments afterwards, and with a hearty emphasis. “I declare that you have quite unsettled me. Your quaint sayings will be ringing in my ears long after you are gone.”
There was a rustle as of a woman’s dress in sudden change of movement behind the tea-urn.
“Cissy,” said Mrs. Campion, “are we ever to have our tea?”
“I beg pardon,” answered a voice behind the urn. “I hear Pompey” (the Skye terrier) “whining on the lawn. They have shut him out. I will be back presently.”
Cecilia rose and was gone. Mrs. Campion took her place at the tea-urn.
“It is quite absurd of Cissy to be so fond of that hideous dog,” said Travers, petulantly.
“Its hideousness is its beauty,” returned Mrs. Campion, laughing. “Mr. Belvoir selected it for her as having the longest back and the shortest legs of any dog he could find in Scotland.”