“Come after dinner, then?”
“Mamma,” said Constance, peevishly, “can’t you see that he does not want to come at all? What is the use of persecuting him?”
“No, I assure you,” said Marmaduke. “It’s only the Bishop I object to. I’ll come after dinner, if I can.”
“And pray what is likely to prevent you?” said the Countess.
“Devilment of some sort, perhaps,” he replied. “Since you have all given me a bad name, I dont see why I should make any secret of earning it.”
The Countess smiled slyly at him, implying that she was amused, but must not laugh at such a sentiment in Constance’s presence. Then, turning so as to give the rest of the conversation an air of privacy, she whispered, “I must tell you that you no longer have a bad name. It is said that your wild oats are all sown, and I will answer for it that even the Bishop will receive you with open arms.”
“And dry my repentant tears on his apron, the old hypocrite,” said Marmaduke, speaking rather more loudly than before. “Well, we must be trotting. We are going to the South Kensington Museum—to improve our minds.”
“Why, that is where we are going; at least, Constance is. She is going to work at her painting while I pay a round of visits. Wont you come with us?”
“Thank you: I’d rather walk. A man should have gloves and a proper hat for your sort of travelling.”
“Nonsense! you look very nice. Besides, it is only down the Brompton Road.”