“I mean, you will not let it shorten your stay?”
“Oh, no—not at all,” he replied. “Charmed to stay, I’m sure. Shan’t break my heart, don’t you know. Try to bear the disappointment.”
Five minutes later her ladyship had left Sir Grantley on the lawn, and gone off in the direction of Lord Barmouth, who saw her coming and beat a retreat, but her ladyship cut him off and met him face to face.
“Tryphie,” said Tom to his little cousin, “there’s a row cooking.”
“Yes,” she replied, sending her ball with straight aim through a hoop. “I saw it coming. I hope it is nothing about Maude; she seems so happy.”
“Hang me if I don’t think it is,” said Tom. “I’m going off directly, for the old girl’s started to wig the governor, I’m certain. I shall go and back him up after giving my mallet to Wilters. Don’t make me madly jealous.”
“Why not?” she replied, mischievously.
“And be careful not to hit his legs,” said Tom. “They’d break like reeds.—Wilters, will you take my mallet? I want to go.”
“Charmed, I’m shaw,” said Sir Grantley, bowing, and being thus introduced to the game, while Tom lit a cigarette and slipped away.
Meanwhile Lady Barmouth had captured her husband as he was moving off, followed closely by Charley Melton’s ugly dog, which no sooner saw her than he lowered his tail, dropped his head, and walked under a clump of Portugal laurel out of the way.