"You said that a week ago," murmured Miss Walford.
"I like the place," he confessed; "I find it very pleasant, myself."
Mrs. Walford threw up her hands with a scream of expostulation. Her face was elderly, despite her attentions to it, but in her manner she was often a great deal more youthful than her daughter; indeed, while the girl had already acquired something of the serenity of a woman, the woman was superficially reverting to the artlessness of a girl.
"What is there to like? Dieppe is the Casino, and the Casino is Dieppe!"
"But the Casino is very agreeable," he said, his glance wandering from her.
"And the charges are perfectly monstrous. Though, of course, you extravagant young men don't mind that!"
"A friend might call me young," said Turquand gloomily; "my worst enemy couldn't call me extravagant."
"Oh, I mind some of the charges," returned Kent. "I hate being 'done.'"
She was pleased to hear him say so. Her chief requirement of a young man was that he should be well provided for, but if he had the good feeling to exercise a nice economy till he became engaged, it was an additional recommendation. Her giggle was as violent as before, though.
"Oh, I daresay!" she exclaimed facetiously; "I'm always being taken in; I don't believe those stories any longer. Do you remember Willy Holmes, Cynthia, and the tales he used to tell me? I used to think that young man was so steady, I was always quoting him! And it turned out he was a regular scapegrace and everybody knew it all the time, and had been laughing at me. I've given up believing in any one, Mr. Kent—in anyone, do you hear?" She shook the splendours of her hat at him, and gasped and gurgled archly. "I've no doubt you're every bit as bad as the rest!"