“And one’s sister doesn’t count,” said the Duchess.
“It’s just because the thing’s bad,” Tishy resumed for Mrs. Brook’s more particular benefit, “that Lord Petherton’s trying to wrest it.”
Mrs. Brook’s pale interest deepened. “Then it’s a real hand-to-hand struggle?”
“He says she shan’t read it—she says she will.”
“Ah that’s because—isn’t it, Jane?” Mrs. Brook appealed—“he so long overlooked and advised her in those matters. Doesn’t he feel by this time—so awfully clever as he is—the extraordinary way she has come out?”
“‘By this time’?” Harold echoed. “Dearest mummy, you’re too sweet. It’s only about ten weeks—isn’t it, Mitch? You don’t mind my saying that, I hope,” he solicitously added.
Mitchy had his back to him and, bending it a little, sat with head dropped and knees pressing his hands together. “I don’t mind any one’s saying anything.”
“Lord, are you already past that?” Harold sociably laughed.
“He used to vibrate to everything. My dear man, what IS the matter?” Mrs. Brook demanded. “Does it all move too fast for you?”
“Mercy on us, what ARE you talking about? That’s what I want to know!” Mr. Cashmore vivaciously declared.