“Such nice people about, and so kind,” said Irene. “Ridiculous idea that we had before about county society being sidey. Of course they can be—you can see that—even your Elizabeth has it in her.”
Andy took a breath like a man going for a big ditch; then he said with a laugh—
“Haven’t you heard? She is Mr. Stamford’s Elizabeth.”
There—it could not have been done in a worse or more tasteless way, he knew, but it was done.
“What!” cried Mrs. Dixon.
“Mr. Stamford engaged—you can’t mean it!” said Irene.
“Oh!” said Phyllis. Nothing else. But she wore Eastern beads that morning, with a flimsy blouse, and her expression now matched her toilet—she looked somehow like a chorus girl who had strayed accidentally into melodrama.
After a good deal more conversation on the subject, during which Andy really felt as if he were walking with bare feet on red-hot cinders, he rose to depart, in spite of an urgent invitation to remain for luncheon.
“Then you must have a sandwich,” urged Mrs. Dixon.
He replied most truly that he would rather not.