“What, Concha?” cried Arnold, breaking off in the middle of his sentence to Harry, “did you say stuffed foxes? I never thought much of the Scotch, but I didn’t think they were as bad as that. Do you really shoot foxes in Scotland, Dundas?”
Since the engagement he had gone back to calling Rory, “Dundas.”
Rory was speechless with laughter: “Oh, Concha! What are you talking about?” he spluttered, and poor Concha, who, since her engagement, had gone in for being a sporting character, blushed crimson.
For the first time Teresa saw something both pretty and touching in Concha’s attitude to life: as a little girl-guide, an Anna, in fact, passionately collects, badges for efficiency in heterogeneous activities—sewing, playing God Save the King on the piano, gardening, tennis, reciting Kipling’s If; so Concha collected the various manifestations of “grown-up-ness”—naughty stories, technical and sporting expressions, scandal about well-known people; and it was all, really, so innocent.
“You got on very well with Colonel Dundas, didn’t you?” she said, turning the subject to what she knew was a source of gratification.
“Oh, yes, she scored heavily with Uncle Jimmy,” said Rory proudly. “He’s in love with her—really in love with her. But I don’t know whether that’s much of a triumph—he’s the bore of ten clubs.”
Concha began to count on her fingers: “The Senior, the Travellers’, Hurlingham, ... er....”
“The Conservative Club, Edinburgh,” prompted Rory.
“The Conservative, Edinburgh—what’s the St. Andrews one?”