“Ma-ter!” And then, of course, the Twin Brethren called out the reserves. “Mrs. Cathcart—My Mother.”
The bow of Grosvenor Square, No. 88, the corner house, was aloof decidedly; the bow of the Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall was so full of conscious power and accumulated dignity that it was really quite gracious.
“Pray be seated, Lady Shelmerdine.”
Beautiful elocution on the part of the goddaughter of Edward Bean.
Lady Shelmerdine seated herself rather superbly, and opened fire with her tortoise-shell folders.
The cap-with-lace-that-had-been-worn-by-Siddons touched the electric button at its elbow.
Entrance of the Bad Girl of the Family, without her apron this time, and divested also of the potato and the bone-hafted knife.
“Mary, child, my spectacles.”
The Bad Girl dived desperately in the inmost recesses of the chiffonnier; found Grandmamma’s spectacles, and prepared to withdraw in something of a hurry. But she was detained.
“Has Jane returned, child?”