“I don’t think I shall run much risk in these, Mr. Stickney.”
“No? Perhaps not. Still, one never can tell, you know. A single prick from a rose-thorn would be enough.”
Mrs. Dangerfield laughed.
“You must be a terribly thoughtful person to live with.”
Freddie considered this for a moment.
“No. Just a knack I have of seeing a thing and knowing how it happens. That reminds me—we shall be thirteen at table to-night. Don’t mind myself, of course—and I’m sure you don’t mind either—but some of the people might, you know. It’s awkward.”
“I shouldn’t trouble about it, Mr. Stickney. As a matter of fact, I remembered it yesterday and rang up Mrs. Tuxford. She and the doctor will dine with us to-night. So no one’s feelings will be ruffled. And of course we never have a full party at lunch. Is your mind relieved?”
Mrs. Dangerfield did not like Freddie Stickney.
“But what about breakfast to-morrow?” pursued the indefatigable inquirer. “They might happen to turn up all at the same time.”
“Mrs. Brent always breakfasts in her own room,” said Mrs. Dangerfield, who was tired of the subject. “I’m sorry. I have some orders to give to this gardener.”