Jack Meredith gave her the lead before long.
“Millicent,” he said, without a vestige of embarrassment, “has consented to be openly engaged now.”
Lady Cantourne nodded comprehensively.
“I think she is very wise,” she said.
There was a little pause.
“I KNOW she is very wise,” she added, turning and laying her hand on Jack's arm. The two phrases had quite a different meaning. “She will have a good husband.”
“So you can tell EVERYBODY now,” chimed in Millicent in her silvery way. She was blushing and looking very pretty with her hair blown about her ears by her last canter with the youthful officer, who was at that moment riding pensively home with a bunch of violets in his coat which had not been there when he started from the stable.
She had found out casually from Jack that Guy Oscard was exiled vaguely to the middle of Africa for an indefinite period. The rest—the youthful officer and the others—did not give her much anxiety. They, she argued to herself, had nothing to bring against her. They may have THOUGHT things—but who can prevent people from thinking things? Besides, “I thought” is always a poor position.
There were, it was true, a good many men whom she would rather not tell herself. But this difficulty was obviated by requesting Lady Cantourne to tell everybody. Everybody would tell everybody else, and would, of course, ask if these particular persons in question had been told; if not, they would have to be told at once. Indeed there would be quite a competition to relieve Millicent of her little difficulty. Besides, she could not marry more than one person. Besides—besides—besides—the last word of Millicent and her kind.
Lady Cantourne was not very communicative during that dainty little tea a trois, but she listened smilingly to Jack's optimistic views and Millicent's somewhat valueless comments.