[CHAPTER XLV]
THE WALSINGHAM HOUSE (PICCADILLY)
"Oh, yes," said my maiden aunt. "I read of your going out to dinners and taking actresses and grass-widows and other pretty ladies to dine. I wonder you are not tired of so much frivolity."
I answered meekly that the worthlessness of my life was often felt seriously by me, and that I took actresses and grass-widows out to dinner because they were kind enough to say that they enjoyed such little outings; but that I would really prefer much more serious company.
My aunt drew down the corners of her mouth and looked at me through her spectacles with supreme disapproval.
"If I could only," I went on, revelling in my wickedness, "secure a missionary lady, or a captain in the Salvation Army, or a shining light of the Pioneer Club, or even one of my maiden aunts, as a dining companion, do you think for a moment that I would dally with the butterflies of the pasture or the stage?"
My maiden aunt was so angry that she sniffed. "As if you would think of asking us!" she said with a snap. "I have noticed you have been facetious at the expense of an imaginary invalid aunt; but you would be very sorry to ask me out really."
"But I do ask you. It would be one of the greatest honours of my life to entertain you at dinner."
My aunt sat silent for a moment or two, her lips so tightly shut that they were almost white. Then there came a tiny twinkle in her eyes. "Very well," she said, "when you name an evening I'll come—just to punish you."