“Yes, Granny.”
“Ask her to have the goodness to bring some tea for Lady Shelmerdine.”
“Oh, not for me, thank you.”
“You are quite sure?”
No. 88 Grosvenor Square, the corner house, was quite, quite sure. Exit the Bad Girl of the Family without daring to look once in the direction of the Braided Morning Coat that was still leaning up forlornly against the chimney-piece.
“Mrs. Cathcart,” said the Governing Classes, getting the first gun in action, “I have done myself the honor of calling upon you—”
“The honor, madam, is entirely mine,” Edward Bean’s goddaughter assured her.
“—because of a most unfortunate state of affairs which has just been brought to my notice.”
The goddaughter of Edward Bean looked sympathetic, although it doesn’t always do to judge by appearances, you know.
“My unfortunate son—Phil-ipp, perhaps you will be good enough to sit down, as it is most desirable that you should follow what I say with the closest attention—my unfortunate son, to the grief of his father, Lord Shelmerdine, has made a proposal of marriage to your niece.”