"Queighs," suggested her husband, demurely, but she scorned the interruption. "And spinning chairs."
"Spinning chairs?" echoed Mr. Woodward, who, hearing for the first time that his house was to be made use of, felt bound to show some interest in the matter.
"Yes! those things with very little seat, no back, and a lot of carving. All the stall-keepers are to be dressed out of Scott's novels and Mr. St. Clare is going to write--what was it, Mr. St. Clare?"
"A rondelet," muttered the poet, gloomily, looking up from the chocolate creams with which he was trying to make life worth living.
"Of course! a rondelet--that is the thing with very few words and a great many rhymes, isn't it? And of course you, Paul, will wear the kilt--local colour is everything."
"My dear girl," cried Paul, too aghast for ill-humour. "I haven't worn the kilt for years--pray consider----"
"The local colour of your knees," put in Lord George, brutally. "Never mind, old man, a bottle of patent bronzine, like Blanche uses for her slippers----"
"George!" cried his wife, rising with an awful dignity. "Shall we go into the drawing-room, Mrs. Woodward?"
"It was only his knees, my dear," protested the discomforted nobleman in a whisper as she swept past him. "Hang it all! if a man mayn't mention his brother-in-law's knees or his wife's slippers."
But she was out of hearing, so he sate down in his chair again and poured himself out a bumper of port viciously.