“I know, I know. But—well, Cousin Percy doesn't speak well of him. He says he is a very fast young man.”
Gertrude bit her lip. “Did Percy say that!” she exclaimed. “How odd! Why, Monty—I mean Mr. Holway—said almost the same thing about him. And I KNOW you like Cousin Percy, Mother.”
Mrs. Dott scarcely knew how to answer. As a matter of fact she did not like their aristocratic relative quite as well as she had at first. There were certain things about him, little mannerisms and condescensions, which jarred upon her. He was so very, very much at home in the family now; in fact, he seemed to take his permanent membership in that family for granted. He had ceased to refer to himself as being on a vacation, and, as for his “literary work,” he appeared to have forgotten that altogether.
But these were not the real reasons for Serena's growing dislike and uneasiness. She hinted at the real reason in her next remark.
“I don't think,” she said, “I don't think, Gertie, that you and he should be so much together. You are engaged to be married, you know, and John—”
Gertrude interrupted. She ignored the mention of Mr. Doane's name.
“Oh, Cousin Percy is all right,” she said lightly. “He's good company. Of course he may be something of a sport, but that is to be expected. The trouble with you and me, Mother, is that we are too old-fashioned; we are not sporty enough.”
“GERTIE!” Serena's horror was beyond words.
Gertrude laughed. “But that can be mended,” she went on. “Mother, you should learn to drink cocktails and tango. I think I shall. Everybody's doing it, doing it, doing it!”
Humming this spirited ditty, which the street pianos had rendered popular, and smiling over her shoulder at her mother, she “one-stepped” from the room. Serena put both hands to her head. Her “nerves” were more troublesome than ever the remainder of that day.