“Sir Gilders Persimmon is not in his youth, but——”
“No, no, Paul—I’m not blaming him for being a ruin—but he’s so damned badly restored.” He turned to the picture. “So you are Eleanor Persimmon, my lady!” He gazed at the portrait dreamily; and, suddenly rousing, added: “Not much of a likeness, old boy, is it?”
Pangbutt smiled wryly.
Anthony peered round the easel at him:
“I suppose she babbles all the time!” said he.
Pangbutt stiffened before the fire:
“Lady Persimmon is a most charming woman,” he said.
“Yes, yes; it’s in the family,” Anthony said airily—“she’s a sort of cousin of mine. My brother had rather a calf-love for her—when he was seventeen—and a calf.”
Pangbutt flushed:
“I do not care to discuss Lady Persimmon,” he said stiffly.