“Of course, sir! and so I shall,” she answered, drawing up her pretty little head, while Lady Archfield gave hers a boding shake.
“Time, and life, and wifehood teach lessons,” murmured Mrs. Woodford in consolation, and the Doctor changed the subject by asking Peregrine whether the ladies abroad were given to housewifery.
“The German dames make a great ado about their Wirthschaft, as they call it,” was the reply, “but as to the result! Pah! I know not how we should have fared had not Hans, my uncle’s black, been an excellent cook; but it was in Paris that we were exquisitely regaled, and our maître d’hôtel would discourse on ragoûts and entremets till one felt as if his were the first of the sciences.”
“So it is to a Frenchman,” growled Sir Philip. “French and Frenchifications are all the rage nowadays, but what will your father say to your science, my young spark?”
The gesture of head and shoulder that replied had certainly been caught at Paris. Mrs. Woodford rushed into the breach, asking about the Princess of Orange, whom she had often seen as a child.
“A stately and sightly dame is she, madam,” Peregrine answered, “towering high above her little mynheer, who outwardly excels her in naught save the length of nose, and has the manners of a boor.”
“The Prince of Orange is the hope of the country,” said Sir Philip severely.
Peregrine’s face wore a queer satirical look, which provoked Sir Philip into saying, “Speak up, sir! what d’ye mean? We don’t understand French grins here.”
“Nor does he, nor French courtesies either,” said Peregrine.
“So much the better!” exclaimed the baronet.