Colonel Boyce, who had listened to the song and the first coruscations of wit with the condescending smile of a connoisseur, now exhibited some impatience. "Egad, Harry, why will you dress like a parson out at elbows?"
"His customary suit of solemn black," said Geoffrey.
"He is in mourning for himself, of course," Alison laughed.
"I have two suits of clothes, ma'am," said Harry meekly. "This is the better."
"Poor Harry!" Geoffrey granted him a look of protective affection. "I vow we are too hard on him, Alison." And then in a lower voice for her private ear. "A dear, worthy fellow, but—well, what would you have?—of no spirit." Alison bit her lip.
"Oh, Mr. Waverton," Harry protested, "indeed, I am proud to be the cause of such wit."
Colonel Boyce stared at his son with an enigmatic frown. Alison's eyes brightened. But Geoffrey suspected no guile. "Not witty thyself, dear lad, but the cause of wit in others, eh? Odds life, Harry, you are invaluable."
"'Tis your kindness for me makes you think so, Mr. Waverton. And, to be sure, I could ask no more than to amuse your lady."
Alison said tartly, "Oh, it takes little to amuse me, sir."
"I am sure, ma'am," Harry agreed meekly.