"That must be Miss Carmichael, I suppose," she remarked easily. "I am beginning to be quite anxious to see this paragon, Paul."
"Nothing easier," replied her brother, shortly; "if you will be ready at three to-morrow afternoon, I'll take you over and introduce you."
Positively she felt relieved when, with some excuse about seeing whether the sportsmen had returned, he left the drawing-room. It was like being on the brink of a volcano when he was there, and yet, poor, dear old fellow, he behaved very sweetly.
She said as much to him, being clever enough to take his real affection for her into consideration, during a brief quarter of an hour's respite from duty which she managed in his business-room before dinner.
"I wish I had a snuggery like this, Paul," she said, plaintively shaking her head over his long length spread out on one side of the fire, and Lord George's on the other, "but women always bear the brunt of everything. If the barometer would go up I could manage; but it will go down, and though I've taken away the one from the hall, Major Tombs has an aneroid in his room, and will speak about it. And Ricketts--I have had her for five years, George, you remember--gave me warning to-day. It seems Jessie took advantage of the fire in Ricketts's room to dry one of Paul's wet suits, and Ricketts thought it was a burglar. She went into hysterics first, and now says she never was so insulted in her life."
Paul laughed. "Would it do any good if I apologised?"
"Wish it had been mine," grumbled Lord George. "This is my last coat but one, and the sleeves of it are damp. I can't think why the dickens the women can't turn 'em inside out."
"Oh! of course, it's the women again, George, but the footman wants to know if he is expected to grease boots, and I don't know what to say. Someone used to grease them, I remember----"
"Oh! if it comes to that," said Paul, hotly, "I'll grease 'em myself. Why should you bother, Blanche?"
"Now that is so like a man! Someone must bother; and really servants are so troublesome about boots, though I must own one would think you men were centipedes; there are fifty pairs in the laundry at present. And Mrs. Woodward says her husband has smoked too many cigars and drunk too much whiskey and soda. As if it were my fault." Poor Lady George spoke quite tearfully.