"Oh, but we have our tea here every afternoon," said Mopsy. "Think of the novelty of the thing."
"No doubt. And this picnic is the Baron's idea?"
"His and Mrs. Tregonell's, they planned it all between them. And they are going to get up private theatricals for your birthday."
"How kind," growled Leonard, scowling at his teacup.
"Isn't it sweet of them? They are going to play 'Delicate Ground.' He is to be Citizen Sangfroid and she Pauline—the husband and wife who quarrel and pretend to separate and are desperately fond of each other all the time, don't you know? It's a powder piece."
"A what?"
"A play in which the people wear powdered wigs and patches, and all that kind of thing. How dense you are."
"I was born so, I believe. And in this powder piece Mrs. Tregonell and Baron de Cazalet are to be husband and wife, and quarrel and make friends again—eh?"
"Yes. The reconciliation is awfully fetching. But you are not jealous, are you?"
"Jealous? Not the least bit."