"Oh, I am sorry," Grisel said stiffly, picking a cluster of pink roses and smelling them. "I hope the old lady will soon be better."
Mr. Wick had apparently great faith in the recuperative powers of his betrothed's grandmother.
"Oh, she'll be all right; they are a splendidly healthy family, the Wandsworths. It is her mother's mother, you see."
Grisel looked at him. "Mrs. Perkins herself does not seem to be like the rest of them, then," she suggested maliciously.
He did not flinch. "No, poor thing, she's the exception that proves the rule. She's always bemoaning it. However, they are trying massage now, a peculiar kind of massage and dumb-bells, and I really believe it is going to do her good."
Grisel nodded indifferently. "I hope so, I am sure. Have you been playing tennis?"
"Yes, Joan Catherwood and I had four sets. She beat me hollow, too. How pretty these roses are!"
She nodded. "Yes, aren't they; I love them." Then she stroked her cheek with a pretty cluster as if it had been a powder puff.
Wick picked a bunch and smelt it.