‘Not very,’ Betty grins. ‘Eighty-two or thereabouts.’
‘Oh, well, then, no doubt she was alluding to a mere boy of her acquaintance.’
‘Not at all. To another frisky person of the opposite sex—a young thing of one hundred and five or so.’
‘What do you mean, Betty? You don’t suppose that Mr. Crosby is a hundred and five or so?’
‘I don’t indeed. I put him in the seventies, if you remember. That would make him quite a babe to the duchess I speak of. She said her centenarian had the brightest, the most engaging manners, and, of course, that reminded me of Mr. Cros— Where are you going now, Susan?’
‘I want to put fresh cuffs on Bonnie’s shirts,’ says Susan. Her tone is a little reserved, and there is a deepening of dignity in the delicate lightness of her steps, as she turns away, that tells Betty she is in some way offended.
Betty, stricken, but with a conscience clear, runs after her and tucks her arm into hers.
‘Have I vexed you?’ asks she.
‘Vexed me?’ Susan’s tone is rather exaggerated. ‘No. How could you have vexed me?’
‘That’s true,’ says Betty comfortably, who never gets deeper than the actual moment. ‘Then I’ll come with you.’