“I see, just to make conversation. The art of conversation is lost, it seems to me; when I think of the sparkle and wit of the conversation of the young men of my day, and contrast it with the conversation of the young men of to-day, I am lost in wonder at what has happened to their brains. Your remark would be interesting if I were a goat fancier, which I am not. But you were never very bright, Richard Fanshawe, even as a boy; I remember that.”
“Thanks,” said Dicky, rather huffled, yet still amused at the outspoken old lady, who, when she took a pen in her hand to write an invitation, was most courtly and kind in her manner of expression (vide her note in first chapter of this book), but whose tongue in conversation was direct.
“All the brains in your family,” went on Lady Seagrave, “seems to have been absorbed by your uncle, General Grampound. You will see him to-morrow——”
“Good gracious!” said Dicky, “is uncle coming here?”
“Yes, he is coming as one of my guests.”
“Is—Is—Miss Lestrange coming with him?”
“She is.”
“Oh!” said Dick in a delighted voice.
“I beg your pardon—what did you say?”
“I only said Oh!”