"What a day!" she cried. "I can't kiss you, mother—how d'ye do, Gerald? Tommy, you angel, come and be drowned in sister's fond embrace!"
They all stared at her. "It's such a jolly rain. I drove myself in the cart that had gone for Mr. Green. Green came in the brougham, poor dear! Well—what are you all staring at, souls?"
"You look so—so young, Bicky," answered Tommy, with an effort. "What a good time you must have had!"
Having taken off her coat and thrown her ruined gloves into the fire, she sat down by her brother and put her arm round him.
"Dear little boy! I am young, Thomas, and I did have a good time. He is going to play for you, dear—all you want him to. He is a—a—what shall I say?" Her eyes crinkled with amusement as she sought for a word. "He really is a—ripper, Tommy. And he has a human dog named Papillon—But-ter-fly," she added, still smiling and obviously quoting, "also a parrot."
"And a wife," put in Carron sharply.
She looked at him, her face stiffening into its old expression of surly hauteur.
"You have seen her?"
"No. But a friend of mine has. Charley Masterson, Tony. He says she looks like a clean old peasant."
"That is exactly what she is—bravo, Charley Masterson! A clean old peasant. Joyselle, too, is a peasant. They come from near Falaise, and as a girl Madame Joyselle wore a cap. Is there no tea going?"