“It isn’t her health exactly,” Sir Isaac dropped out. “You see—she’s a young woman. She gets ideas.”
“You know,” he continued, “I’d like to have a look at that barn again. If we develop that—and a sort of corridor across where the shrubs are—and ran out offices....”
§5
Mr. Brumley’s mind was still vigorously struggling with the flaming implications of Sir Isaac’s remark that Lady Harman “got ideas,” and Sir Isaac was gently whistling his way towards an offer of three thousand nine hundred when they came down out of the pines into the path along the edge of the herbaceous border. And then Mr. Brumley became aware of an effect away between the white-stemmed trees towards the house as if the Cambridge boat-race crew was indulging in a vigorous scrimmage. Drawing nearer this resolved itself into the fluent contours of Lady Beach-Mandarin, dressed in sky-blue and with a black summer straw hat larger than ever and trimmed effusively with marguerites.
“Here,” said Sir Isaac, “can’t I get off? You’ve got a friend.”
“You must have some tea,” said Mr. Brumley, who wanted to suggest that they should agree to Sir Isaac’s figure of three thousand eight hundred, but not as pounds but guineas. It seemed to him a suggestion that might prove insidiously attractive. “It’s a charming lady, my friend Lady Beach-Mandarin. She’ll be delighted——”
“I don’t think I can,” said Sir Isaac. “Not in the habit—social occasions.”
His face expressed a panic terror of this gallant full-rigged lady ahead of them.
“But you see now,” said Mr. Brumley, with a detaining grip, “it’s unavoidable.”
And the next moment Sir Isaac was mumbling his appreciations of the introduction.