“Who is this coming down the drive?”
“Mr. Courtier, I think.”
“What does he mean by it, with that leg?”
“He is coming to talk to you, Granny.”
Lady Casterley stopped short.
“You are a cat,” she said; “a sly cat. Now mind, Babs, I won't have it!”
“No, darling,” murmured Barbara; “you shan't have it—I'll take him off your hands.”
“What does your mother mean,” stammered Lady Casterley, “letting you grow up like this! You're as bad as she was at your age!”
“Worse!” said Barbara. “I dreamed last night that I could fly!”
“If you try that,” said Lady Casterley grimly, “you'll soon come to grief. Good-morning, sir; you ought to be in bed!”