"I hope you'll be made comfortable here, Mr. Lightnut," she said, peeling a glove with a jerk, "but I have my doubts."
And she gave a kind of hollow laugh.
I shifted distressfully. "Oh, really now," I began protestingly, but she marched right over me:
"I can assure you that a guest here earns a martyr's crown," she said, lifting her eyebrows. Then she shook her head, her lips compressed.
I coughed. Couldn't say the thing I wanted to say, you know—seemed too devilish rude. Just have to stand it when they talk that way. Pugsley says best thing to do is to purse up your lips and bob your head—you don't have to mean it.
So I just went through all this and threw in a shrug, too. Thought no use having her mad and working against me with Frances. Catch the idea? Simple thing, you know, just to play her with my finesse.
"Awfully tiresome, these country places," I said sympathetically. I screwed my glass at a couple of footmen who came into view at the far end of the hall, and who were whispering and chuckling about something. "Things seem to be run a bit loose, don't you know—that's a fact. Don't mind for myself, but fancy a girl might find it rather trying visiting here."
By Jove, how she opened her eyes at me—surprised, I knew, at finding me such a devilish keen observer. My sympathy touched her, too, for her eyeballs shone moist of a sudden and I saw her lip tremble as she stared. Then she swallowed hard and slapped her gloves sharply across her palm.
"It's Francis that's to blame for that sort of thing," she rasped, nodding down the hall.
"Frances?" I ejaculated in protest. "Oh, here, I say, now—"