“Why do I talk to him like that, when he hasn’t a glimmer of understanding about art or anything beyond the commonplace, poor fellow?” reflected Claudia. Aloud she said, “When you see it to-morrow morning, you will be glad that I was firm.”
And then she nodded and went away.
In an armchair close by, Miss Arbuthnot was sitting. She looked lazily up.
“Harry,” she said, “you might take me in to dinner for once instead of your father. All my wits have gone out into the suburbs this evening, and as you never had any, you won’t miss them.”
“All right,” he agreed, rather dejectedly. “There’s the gong.”
He hoped to sit next Claudia, but Fenwick was too quick for him.
“Never mind,” said Miss Arbuthnot, “or if you do mind, bear it. Life, like art, is made up of sacrifices, and for once you might put up with me, particularly as I, too, should prefer you to be somebody else.”
“Who?” He stared.
“Oh, you expect too much. Do you suppose it is the vicar? I am not going to talk about myself; when I do I like to have my wits at home, and, as I told you, they are out visiting. You are a much more simple subject, and as we are old friends, almost as old as you and the lime trees, I should like to know why you are allowing that little girl to ride you rough-shod?”
He did not answer, and she asked, with a touch of anxiety—