"Sometimes; but not often. Not what you would call decent society, Joey."
"Well," remarked Miss Gaymer, turning her opponent's flank with characteristic readiness, "whatever it was, it wasn't very particular about clothes. Hughie, your get-up is perfectly tragic. If you are going to be my keeper you will have to begin by dressing decently. I don't know who your tailor is, but—Che-e-erub!"
"What ho!" came from the croquet-lawn.
"Come here, at once."
Cherub obediently put down his mallet and approached. Having arrived, he halted and stood to attention.
"Cherub," commanded Miss Gaymer, "turn round and round till I tell you to stop, and let Mr. Marrable see your clothes."
Much flattered, Cherub rotated serenely on his axis for the benefit of the untutored Marrable, while Miss Gaymer ran over his points.
"Must I have a waist?" inquired Hughie meekly.
"Yes—if you've got one," replied Joan, surveying her guardian's amorphous shooting-jacket doubtfully.
"And purple socks?"