“Would you do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know. But then, I’m a fool.”
“Exactly,” said Willoughby. “So’m I.”
Spring frowned.
“Think,” she said. “Think of sitting in your own library, with servants falling over one another to answer the bell when you rang, and hunters in the stables and four cars, and Royalty coming to stay with you, and money to burn, and ‘The Wife of Willoughby Bagot, Esquire’ the picture of the year, and Chancery smiling in its sleep because a Gray Bagot was up in the saddle again.”
“ ‘And hatred therewith,’ ” said Willoughby, producing a pipe. “Nothing doing, you witch. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m much too foolish. Quite idiotic, in fact. It’s hereditary. After all, I’ve much to be thankful for. At the moment, I’m thankful for your dimple. I suppose it always comes when you’re trying not to laugh.”
Spring covered her face and shook with merriment.
Presently she sat up soberly.
“We don’t do so badly, we servants, do we?” she said. “I guess our respective employers aren’t laughing like that. I suppose you won’t let me wash up?”
“Certainly not,” said Bagot. “That’s William’s affair.”