Margot laughed naïvely—an entrancing display of white teeth and rose-lined mouth. “Marquis of Crossley, papa,” she said. “That’s all—and quite enough it is.”
“I don’t know much about the big men in England,” said I. “He looked rather young to amount to very much.”
“He’s as old as you are,” said Edna, a flash of ill-humor appearing and vanishing.
I was astonished. “I thought him a boy,” said I.
“He’s one of the greatest nobles in England—one of the greatest in Europe,” said Edna—and I saw Margot’s eyes sparkling.
“He seemed a nice fellow,” said I amiably. “How you have grown, Margot!”
“Hasn’t she, though!” cried my wife. “Aren’t you proud of her?”
“I’m proud of you both,” said I. “You make me feel old and dingy.”
“You’ve been working too hard, poor dear,” said Edna tenderly. “If you only would stay over here and learn the art of leisure.”
“I’m afraid I’d be dismally bored,” said I.