At once we went to the small table in the next room. The flowers were exquisite. The young lady crunched radishes, with enthusiasm, and spoke disparagingly of a certain hackney which, according to her, had unfairly been awarded a blue ribbon at Piping Rock, gaining a decision over her own palfrey. Also, she discussed Mrs. Pickley-Sanderson's form at tennis and spoke of the new shotgun her father had brought over for her, from England.
"What's your handicap at golf, Mr. Cole?" she asked me, graciously.
"I'm afraid David's a fossil," put in Gordon. "He's utterly ignorant of the most important things of life."
"What a pity," she sympathized. "And how do you manage to spend the time?"
"I—I don't spend it, Miss Van Rossum," I answered, inanely. "I try to save it and make it last as long as possible."
"How funny," she declared, and gave me up as hopeless, directing the remainder of her conversation at Gordon.
Finally, I took my leave, conscious that I had been asinine in my remarks and had made a deplorable impression. Upon the picture I cast one more look before leaving. Those wonderful eyes of Frances were directed towards the baby, of course, but for an instant I felt that she was about to raise them and smile at me. At any rate she doesn't consider me as a useless incumbrance of the earth because I can't play golf or shoot birds. She is restful and gentle, whereas Miss Van Rossum appears to me to have the soothing qualities of a healthy bass drum. But then, I may be mistaken.