"Oh, dear no, but I don't mind owning to you, mother, that if it wasn't for Dorothy, I might be in danger! She used to be a fairy princess, but now she's a princess of ideal royalty. Such a beautiful gown—worth, I'm sure, twenty-five guineas, and a little string of lovely pearls—his gift, and the big ruby. I shall never," he added thoughtfully, "be able to dress poor Dorothy like that."
His mother regarded him suspiciously.
"Oh, go on," she said, "with your Dorothy."
He rose, and did a few steps of the "Bacchanal à la Mordkin," whistling the music through his teeth. "Speak not, oh aged one," he then cried, striking an attitude, "with disrespect of the moon-faced and altogether irreproachable Dorothy."
Mrs. Wick shook her head. "I'm really sorry for you, Oliver," she said. "You're so silly, and as to your Dorothy Perkins, I believe her name's Harris."
He grinned. "Well, perhaps it is. After all, there's very little difference between Perkins and Harris. And it's done the trick. Oh, mother, you should have seen me! I was an absolute gem of half-shamefaced love-sickness."
"I don't see why you had to tell all that rubbish to Jenny and me," the old woman protested, a little offended, rubbing her nose with her thumb.
"But of course I had to! Jenny's seeing that soft idiot of a Paul every day, and would be sure to give it away." He chuckled. "I saw her whispering it as a great secret to the old lady and she was so surprised she never ate a bit of dinner—it was a good dinner, too."
"You're a rascal," his mother declared comfortably, "and you deserve to have her marry twenty old gentlemen."
He sat down, his face suddenly grave.