“Must go and say good-night to Perowne and Madam Helen,” he replied.
“They would not miss us,” said Mrs Doctor, tartly. “I daresay we should only be interrupting some pleasant flirtation.”
“Oh—oh—oh! I say,” said the doctor, jocularly. “For shame, my dear, for shame! I’ll tell Perowne what you say about his flirtations.”
“Don’t be foolish, Bolter,” said his wife, sharply. “You know what I mean.”
“What, about Perowne flirting with the ladies?” he said, with a smothered chuckle.
“About Helen Perowne,” she said, shortly. “Well, here we are upon the lawn, and of course there’s no host here and no hostess.”
“But there’s little Grey,” said the doctor. “By jingo, I’d about forgotten her.”
“No wonder, sir, when you have been drinking with her father to such an extent.”
“Fine thing in this climate, my dear,” said the doctor. “Where’s Arthur?”
“Tired of all this frivolity, I suppose, and gone home like a sensible man. He does not drink whiskey.”