When she did speak her tone was motherly.
[p254]
“Hughie,” she said, “they are charming little girls,—for a summer day on the mountain. But we’re in our autumn now, you and I, and for daily companionship I assure you you would get more satisfaction from Lynn or Muffie.”
The hat was pushed an inch or two lower still.
“K—you’re a good sort, of course, but—I get lonely sometimes, girl.”
“Yes, yes, boy. God knows it’s natural. But—not a pretty butterfly, Hugh. A woman nearer your own age, dear boy, some one to be a restful companion for you, able to appreciate your work, and fit in with your angles instead of your having to attempt to unmake yourself at your age and fit into hers.”
“All right, don’t disturb me, I’m going to sleep,” said Hugh sulkily. What was the use of asking a woman’s advice on any subject under the sun?
The escaped caddies brought down more hampers. In the strap of one of them were the morning letters, forgotten till now.
Hugh opened them irritably, while Kate meekly went on with her task of making a salad.
She was engaged in the critical operation of squeezing the juice from her sliced cucumber, by pressing the top plate heavily down on the bottom one, when the author gave so sudden [p255] and strong an exclamation that she dropped the whole concern.
“What Tommy rot is this?” he demanded of her angrily. “What lunatic trick have you played me now, Kate? Where’s the last number of the Melbourne Review?”