“Yes, lady; oh, yes. Frankness is the privilege of great minds.”
“Your last lecture was too long,” she said. “Two mortal hours we had to sit here and listen to you. It wasn’t fair, MacDaly, for we are all tired people and come to the kitchen for relaxation. We don’t want a formal programme, and though it is very interesting to hear about Napoleon and St. Helena, you shouldn’t entrap us into listening to you when our minds aren’t in a receptive condition.”
“True, lady, true, most unfortunately true; but yet,” depositing his tall hat and his sword on the table, and tentatively unfolding his manuscript with a roguish gleam in the tail of his eye, “yet if I might be graciously vouchsafed just one humble corner wherein to amble away in figures of speech those listening who felt in that manner disposed, those not attending who felt in any way so inclined, I might, could, would, and should——”
“Go on, man,” said Camperdown with an imperious gesture, “and don’t bore people to death.”
MacDaly blinked maliciously at him, stationed himself against the wall at a short distance from the fire, and drawing a reading desk toward him placed his manuscript on it.
“Does the time serve my presumption?” he asked presently, peering about the room through a pair of spectacles.
No one heard him. The soldiers were playing games at the tables with their sweethearts, and the other men and women were engaged in conversation. Stargarde, Vivienne, and Dr. Camperdown were talking to a sad-faced girl who had just come in; Judy had slipped to a cushion on the floor and was being initiated into the mysteries of jackstones; and Mr. Armour was absently stroking his mustache and looking into the fire.
Nothing daunted MacDaly cleared his throat and began, “Be it known to all men that somebody said something about Lady Stargarde Turner and her systematic family——”
“Hear him,” said Dr. Camperdown; “he’s talking about you, Miss Turner.”
“MacDaly,” called Stargarde in her clear sweet voice, “you mustn’t be personal.”