“Do; yes, that’s worth doing. Let us.”
“Let’s ask him to tea.”
Chapter 16
Leonard accepted the invitation to tea next Saturday. But he was right; the visit proved a conspicuous failure.
“Sugar?” said Margaret.
“Cake?” said Helen. “The big cake or the little deadlies? I’m afraid you thought my letter rather odd, but we’ll explain—we aren’t odd, really—not affected, really. We’re over-expressive: that’s all.”
As a lady’s lap-dog Leonard did not excel. He was not an Italian, still less a Frenchman, in whose blood there runs the very spirit of persiflage and of gracious repartee. His wit was the Cockney’s; it opened no doors into imagination, and Helen was drawn up short by “The more a lady has to say, the better,” administered waggishly.
“Oh, yes,” she said.
“Ladies brighten—”
“Yes, I know. The darlings are regular sunbeams. Let me give you a plate.”