"I don't know that I quite follow you, Graeme. Do you mind not knocking out your pipe on the clean hearth?"
The individual addressed ignored the last sentence and thoughtfully rubbed the bowl of his pipe against the side of his sunburnt nose.
"They give me the holy pip," he explained.
"Do they!" said his step-sister icily. "May I ask in what respect they—they fail to meet with your approval? You are fond of complaining that you never meet any nice girls—that your life in the Navy restricts you to the companionship of your own sex; with an alternative the reverse of desirable. I place opportunities in your way of becoming acquainted with the young people of the County and you behave with rudeness to them, and to me, if you'll let me say so. Josephine and Alicia Smedley are both war-workers, and you should have much in common, making all allowances for your—er, peculiar upbringing."
"Thank 'ee," said her step-brother cheerfully. "What particular line of business do they chuck their weights about in?"
"They are both taking a holiday, but normally Josephine drives a War Office car——"
"Abnormally, I should say," interposed the soiler of clean hearths. "She's got a laugh like a Klaxon horn. What's t'other been doing in the Great War, Grannie?"
"Alicia? She places her somewhat exceptional talents at the disposal of the wounded soldiers—officers, of course."
"Course. Don't tell me she nurses 'em?"
"No. Her temperament—sensitive, artistic, fluid as it is—is too refined for the horrors of wards and operating theatres; she dances to amuse the poor things when they are convalescing—convalescence is a trying time."