At Hampton Court the tinkling flocks are not provided with an official bellwether, but are left to browse at discretion on the tough herbage of History. It happened in this manner that, in default of another informant, our young woman, who on doubtful questions was able to suggest a great many alternatives, found herself again apply for judicious support to Lord Lambeth. He, however, could but once more declare himself a broken reed and that his education, in such matters, had been sadly neglected.
“And I’m sorry it makes you so wretched,” he further professed.
“You’re so disappointing, you know,” she returned; but more in pity—pity for herself—than in anger.
“Ah, now, don’t say that! That’s the worst thing you could possibly say.”
“No”—she spoke with a sad lucidity—“it’s not so bad as to say that I had expected nothing of you.”
“I don’t know”—and he seemed to rejoice in a chance to demur. “Give me a notion of the sort of thing you expected.”
“Well, that you’d be more what I should like to be—what I should try to be—in your place.”
“Ah, my place!” he groaned. “You’re always talking about my place.”
The girl gave him a look; he might have thought she coloured; and for a little she made no rejoinder. “Does it strike you that I’m always talking about your place?”
“I’m sure you do it a great honour,” he said as if fearing he had sounded uncivil.