Lady Grenellen had told us all their history. Not a possible drop of blood bluer than a navvy's could circulate in their veins, and yet their wrists were fine, their heads were small, and their general appearance was that of gentlewomen.
I seemed to see pictures and sounds of my earliest childhood as they spoke, I took to them at once.
Following the English custom, Lady Grenellen did not introduce them to any one but Babykins, who happened to step forward, and we all proceeded to lunch, which was laid at small, round tables.
The Duke wore an air of comic distress. His eyebrows were raised as though trying to understand a foreign language.
I sat with Lady Tilchester at another table, and we could not hear most of their conversation, only the sentences of the American ladies, and they sounded like some one talking down the telephone in one of the plays I saw in Paris. You only heard one side, not the answers back.
"Why, this is a real castle!" "You don't say!" "Yes, beheaded in the hall." "Miss Trumpet has all the statistics. She read them in the guide-book coming along." "I calculate she knows more about your family history, Dook, than you know yourself," etc., etc.
"What a pity they have voices like that!" exclaimed Lady Tilchester. "I know Berty will be put off, he is so ridiculously fastidious, and it is absolutely necessary that he should marry an heiress."
"The niece is young. Perhaps hers could be softened," I said. "She is so pretty, too."
Lady Tilchester looked at me suddenly. She had not listened to what I said.
"Oh, dear Mrs. Gurrage, you will help us to secure this girl? I ask you frankly, because, of course, the Duke is in love with you, and he naturally would not be impressed with Miss Trumpet."