“A compliment,” sneered its recipient.
“Gal’s on the big side. A reg’lar bouncer; but, by George——!”
His grace paused on the apostrophe to his natal saint.
“Carries her clothes like Grandmother Dorset,” said he.
“It is a great responsibility,” said Caroline, “for a woman of my age to have a creature like that to look after.”
“Money?”
“Not a sou.”
“Pity,” said George, whose standards were frankly utilitarian. “Fine-looking gal. Cheriton appears to think so.”
By now the space between the bath-chair and the first pair in the procession had been increased to twenty paces.
“Cheriton,” called the old lady, “this is not a coursing match.”