Well, I sha'n't be in if he does come. I can just see him pulling himself together once temptation (it makes me think of Malcolm!) is out of his way; he no doubt feels he has had an escape, as I am nobody very grand.
The letters come early here, as everywhere, but in a bag which only Mr. Montgomerie can open, and one has to wait until every one is seated at breakfast before he produces the key and deals them all out.
Mr. Carruthers's was the only one for me, and it had "Branches" on the envelope, which attracted Mr. Montgomerie's attention, and he began to "burrrr," and hardly gave me time to read it before he commenced to ask questions apropos of the place, to get me to say what the letter was about. He is a curious man.
"Carruthers is a capital fellow, they tell me—er. You had better ask him over quietly, Katherine, if he is all alone at Branches"—this with one eye on me in a questioning way.
I remained silent.
"Perhaps he is off to London, though?"
I pretended to be busy with my coffee.
"Best pheasant-shoot in the county, and a close borough under the old régime. Hope he will be more neighborly—Er—suppose he must shoot 'em before November?"
I buttered my toast.
Then the "burrrrs" began. I wonder he does not have a noise that ends with d—n simply. It would save him time.