“Burden,” said the old lady, “make a note of that.”
With an ostentation that Caroline Crewkerne considered wholly unnecessary, Cheriton inscribed this important contribution to sociology on the tablets of the gentlewoman. “What new game is the old heathen going to play, I wonder?” was the question that passed through his mind as he did so.
“What was Gobo doing in the parish?” inquired Cheriton. “Come to worry the War Office as usual?”
“No,” said the old lady, “he seemed more serious than usual, but that may have been drink. As I am showing Ponto at the dog show on Tuesday week, George has consented to award the prizes. I have chosen a silver collar with his name inscribed suitably. I don’t know anything more becoming than a silver collar for a dog of Ponto’s type.”
“I am afraid it’s a job; and don’t forget, my dear Caroline, the last one you perpetrated did no good to the country.”
“What do you mean, Cheriton?” said the old lady, with her bristles going up like a badger. “Have the goodness to explain your meaning.”
“That boy from Eton—your protégé—whom you sent out to South Africa to command a brigade, made a dooce of a hash of it, they tell me.”
“That is a lie, Cheriton, and you know it,” said the old lady, whose voice quivered so much with passion that it frightened Miss Burden considerably. “Poor dear Arthur once told me himself that the battle of Waterloo was won on the playing-fields of Eton.”
“It is your thoughtlessness, my dear Caroline, in taking for gospel the senile speeches of an old fogy who lived far longer than he ought to have done, that has so nearly cost us a continent. The playing-fields of Eton forsooth!”
“Cheriton,” said the old lady, “I despise you.”