She turned with an acid smile to a little table hard by.
“Here,” she said, “is the latest intelligence of a country neighbour of yours that you once studied to take your cue from.”
“You mean Tuke, of course. What about him?”
“Why, only that his hoyden hath presented him with an heir to his profligacy;”—and she read out from a current copy of the Lady’s Magazine the following announcement: “‘October 29. The lady of Sir Robt. Linne, Bart., of a son.’”
“I congratulate them with all my heart,” said Blythewood fervently.
Miss Angela looked at him with a stare of infinite scorn.
“You were present at the wedding, I think?” said she.
“You know I was.”
“And you made quite an ingenious little speech to the May-day bride and her Jack-in-the-green, or clown—which was it? and I think you got tipsy, which was the best compliment you could have paid her.”
“I dare say—I dare say; and—well, what then?”