"Ah, do," she said. "A Bradshaw is quite indispensable. Archie, go and get a thyrsus—will a poker do, Lord Harlow?—and persuade Mrs. Morris to have another waltz before long."
Now that the sheer animal exhilaration of that adorable waltz, which quite precluded talking, was over, it seemed perfectly suitable, as she plodded along the weary way of the fox-trot, to talk again, and in answer to Lord Harlow, who had not caught Archie's name, she said:
"Yes, Lord Davidstow. Surely I told you about him" (she knew that she had purposely not done so). "He is Lady Tintagel's son, with whom I am staying."
Lord Harlow quietly assimilated this as he turned slowly round.
"And does he do other things as well as he dances?" he asked.
"I think he does," said she, "though I never really thought about it.
When people are such dears as Archie, one doesn't consider what they do.
They just are."
"He certainly is. He appears very much alive."
"Yes, he's madly alive."
She gave him a swift glance, and, guessing she had gone far enough on that tack, she put about.
"I think it's possible to be too much alive," she said. "It's like a hot-water bottle that is too hot: it burns you. But you can't help being carried off your feet by it—I don't mean the hot-water bottle."