Jim Lascelles was one of those unfortunate and misguided people who have an extraordinary flair for what they call “fun.” He bent over to his mother.
“Don’t give the show away yet,” said he.
“You are too cryptic, my son, for this addle-pate.”
“Don’t you see,” said Jim. “They think our dark horse is an outsider. Had they known they wouldn’t have come.”
Jim’s mother smiled her little half smile whose furtive mischief was really far more becoming than it ought to have been.
“When is the sale of work, Lady Charlotte?” she asked, in order to keep the pot boiling.
The simple question was received by the three ladies with hauteur. As the sale of work began on the morrow, and Mrs. Lascelles had promised to preside over the bran tub or the refreshment stall or the rummage counter, she was not quite clear which, their demeanor was perhaps not unnatural.
“The sale of work begins to-morrow at three o’clock, Mrs. Lascelles,” said Miss Champneys, coldly.
“Of course,” said Jim’s mother. “How stupid of me! I knew that perfectly well. What I meant to have said was, which is the day upon which Lady Charlotte will perform the opening ceremony?”
“The first, Mrs. Lascelles,” said Miss Champneys and Miss Laetitia, speaking as one.