Cheriton checked politely to await the arrival of the powers.
“Dear me!” said he; “are we walking quickly? Miss Araminta moves like a fawn in her own West country.”
“Girl,” said the old lady, “don’t walk so quickly. You are now in Hyde Park, not in a lane in Devonshire.”
“You come from Devon,” said George Betterton, addressing Miss Perry with an air of remarkable benevolence, “where the cream comes from, eh?”
If we assert positively that Miss Perry made a gesture of licking her lips in a frankly feline manner, we lay ourselves open to a scathing rebuke from the feminine section of our readers. They will assure us that no true lady would be guilty of such an act when walking in Hyde Park on a Sunday morning with the highest branch of the peerage. Yet we are by no means certain she did not. At least, the gesture she made was highly reminiscent of a feat of that nature.
“They promised to send me some from the Parsonage,” said Miss Perry, wistfully, “but it hasn’t come yet.”
“Shame!” said his grace, with deep feeling. “I’ll go round to Buszard’s first thing to-morrer and tell ’em to send you a pot.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” said Miss Perry.
“Pray don’t mention it, my dear Miss——” said the Duke, with a somewhat heavy yet by no means unsuccessful air.
“My name is Araminta,” drawled Miss Perry, with her usual formula; “but they call me Goose because I am rather a Sil-lay.”