I have reason to believe that Lady Annabel speaks of me behind my back as “our afflicted friend, Sir Miles Flower.”
“I have done so much—so very much—entertaining myself, and necessarily on such an enormous scale, that I perhaps realize better than most people what it all means. When I heard what you were contemplating, I felt that it would be friendly to come round at once and offer you the benefit of my experience.”
“Thank you,” said Claire.
Her eyes were so large and scornful and her voice held so satirical an intonation that I interposed.
“Claire’s young cousins are very anxious to get up some theatricals and to take advantage of having that young fellow here—Patch—to do some writing for them. They’re working up something musical.”
“Delightful, indeed,” said Lady Annabel in a severe and melancholy voice. “And is there much musical talent hereabouts?”
“Sallie Ambrey sings rather nicely, and Mrs. Fazackerly is really musical—she is adapting Captain Patch’s libretto—and then there are one or two others.”
“Let me warn you—” began Lady Annabel.
She suddenly glanced to the right and to the left of our not very large drawing-room as though we might be suspected of having concealed one of the servants behind a bookcase.
Then she sank her always low voice to a pitch that was all but a whisper and most impressive.