"Changed?" he said haltingly. "Well, it's rather hard to say, until—until—"
"Until I've got my hair up and more clothes on?" suggested Miss Gaymer. "Perhaps you're right. Still, I look rather nice, don't you think?" she added modestly, preening herself in the kimono. "However, you'll see me at breakfast. Meanwhile I want you to hold those two boys back while I get into the bathroom. Ta-ta, dears!"
And with an airy wave of her hand to the unwashed and discomfited firm of Dicky and Cherub, who stood grinning sheepishly in the background, Hughie's ward slipped under her guardian's arm and disappeared into the bathroom, with a swish of cærulean drapery and a triumphant banging of the door.
Half an hour later Hughie descended to breakfast, there to be greeted by his host, Jack Leroy, a retired warrior of thirty-eight, of comfortable exterior and incurable laziness, and his wife, the one-time render of Hughie's heart-strings in the person of Miss Mildred Freshwater. Another old friend was the Reverend Montague D'Arcy, whom we last saw dancing the Cachuca by the waters of the Cam. Here he was, a trifle more rotund and wearing Archidiaconal gaiters, but still the twinkling-eyed D'Arcy of old. One or two other guests were seated at the table, but as yet there was no sign of Joey. When she did appear, it was in a riding-habit; and after a hearty meal, in no way accelerated by urgent and outspoken messages from the front door, where her swains were smoking the pipe of patience, she dashed off in a manner which caused most of those who were over-eating themselves round the table to refer enviously to the digestive equipment of the young, and left Hughie to be entertained by his host and hostess.
"You'll find her a queer handful, Hughie," said Mrs. Leroy, as she sat placidly embroidering an infantine garment in the morning sun on the verandah,—in the corner of which the current issues of the "Spectator" and "Sporting Life," fully unfurled, together with two pairs of perpendicular boot-soles and a cloud of cigar-smoke, proclaimed the fact that the Army and the Church were taking their ease together,—"but I want you to remember all the time that she is sound. You'll be tempted to disbelieve that over and over again, but don't! She has been utterly spoiled by everybody, and you must give her time to find her level again. Left to herself, she would be as good as gold. I don't say she wouldn't do something rather outré now and then from sheer animal spirits, but that doesn't count. She's young, of course, so she can't—she can't be expected to—you know what I mean?"
"Stand corn," remarked a voice from behind the "Sporting Life."
"Thank you, dear: that's just it. You see, Hughie, men egg her on,—they're all alike: Jack and Mr. D'Arcy are as bad as any,—and she gets excited and carried away, and occasionally she does something stupid and conspicuous. Five minutes later she is bitterly ashamed, and comes and cries her heart out to me. People know nothing about that, of course: all they do know is that she did the stupid thing, and they call her a forward little cat and a detestable imp. Don't you believe them, Hughie!
"Then you'll find her absurdly impulsive and generous: you could have the clothes off her back if you wanted them. The other day she came home in floods of tears because of a story which a beggar-woman with a baby had told her. It was the usual sort of story, but it was quite enough for Joey. She had carried the baby herself for about two miles, and given the mother all the money she had, and made her promise faithfully to come and see me next day. Of course the woman never turned up, and Joey's blouse had to be burned,—oh, that baby!—but that sort of thing doesn't alter her faith in human nature. And she stands the great test, Hughie. She hasn't got one set of manners when men are about and another when they are not. But she's a kittle creature. You must be tender with her, and—"
"Run her on the snaffle, old man—what?" corroborated the "Sporting Life."
Hughie blew through his pipe meditatively.