Isabel smiled. "My dear Lord Bobby, how absurd you are! Now perhaps you will respond to my confidence, and tell us when you feel shy."
Bobby thought for a moment. "When my boots creak," he answered.
Everybody laughed. "It is no laughing matter, I can assure you," he continued. "I've got a pair now that make me feel as timid as an unfledged school-girl every time I put them on. I wore them to go to church only last Sunday; and they sang such a processional hymn to themselves all the way up the aisle, that by the time I reached our pew I was half dead with shame, and 'the beauty born of murmuring sound' had 'passed into my face'; but it wasn't the type of beauty that was becoming to me—it was too anxious and careworn for my retroussé style."
"Weren't your people awfully ashamed of you?" asked Isabel.
"There were none of them there except my mother; and she sat at the far end of the pew, and tried to look as if I were only a collateral."
"I wonder if your mother ever feels shy?" remarked Violet.
"Dreadfully, of her own maid. She has had her for a long time; and I believe that when a maid has had a right of way across your head for over seven years, she can do your hair in what style she likes and you may not interfere. That, I am told, is the law with regard to rights of way."
"Do you ever feel shy?" inquired Isabel of Mr. Kesterton.
"Only when I'm introduced to babies, and their mothers look as if they expected me to kiss them—to kiss the babies, I mean—not the mothers; that would not make me feel nearly so shy. I am always being godfather to the terrible little things, and giving them spoons; but I confine myself to the silver variety."
"Are you many godfathers?"