“Lacy,” said Bootles, suddenly, “is it true about Allardyce?”
“Hartog says so. They say she—er—dwrinks like a duck.”
“Pooh!” But Bootles laughed as if it was a great joke, and Mrs. Smith begged to be enlightened.
“Oh! don’t you remember Allardyce? He’s the great military teetotal light.”
“And—er—he wreally is an AWFUL duf-fah,” remarked Miss Mignon, in so exact and so unconscious an imitation of Lacy’s drawl that her hearers went off into fits of laughter, and Miss Grace, clasping her close to her breast, bent, and kissed the luxuriant golden curls.
“You’re crying,” said Miss Mignon, promptly, scanning Miss Grace’s face with her big eyes.
“No; but you made me laugh,” she said, hastily.
“Some people do cry when they laugh,” Miss Mignon informed her. “Our colonel does. Now Major Garnet always chokes, and then Bootles thumps him. I don’t know what he’ll do,” she added, in a tone of deep concern, “if he chokes while we are away.”
“I never saw such an original little piece of mischief in my life,” cried Mrs. Smith. “And how charmingly dressed—is she not, Madame? So sensible of you to cover her up with that warm serge up to her throat and down to her wrists. Who put you up to it?”