“They understood me. They knew I wanted to help them. And my husband encouraged them to come.”
“Takes some encouragin’, the subaltern of the present day, unless it’s to tennis and two-step,” said Colonel West.
“But such dear boys! I felt their mothers would have been so glad. And our regiment had quite a name for nice subalterns. There is something so delightful about a subaltern—so care-free.”
“By Jove, yes!” said Colonel West. “Doesn’t care for anything on earth—not even the adjutant!”
“Now, Algernon——” But at that moment dinner was announced, and the rest of the sentence was lost—which was an unusual fate for any remark of Mrs. West’s.
It was Norah’s first experience as hostess at her father’s dinner-table—since, in this connexion, Billabong did not seem to count. No one could ever have been nervous at Billabong. Besides, there was no butler there: here, Allenby, gravely irreproachable, with Sarah and Bride as attendant sprites, seemed to intensify the solemnity of everything. However, no one seemed to notice anything unusual, and conversation flowed apace. Colonel West did not want to talk: such cooking as Miss de Lisle’s appeared to him to deserve the compliment of silence, and he ate in an abstraction that left Garrett free to talk to Norah; while Mrs. West overwhelmed Mr. Linton with a steady flow of eloquence that began with the soup and lasted until dessert. Then Norah and Mrs. West withdrew leaving the men to smoke.
“My dear, your cook’s a poem,” said Mrs. West, as they returned to the drawing-room. “Such a dinner! That souffle—well, words fail me!”
“I’m so glad you liked it,” Norah said.
“It melted in the mouth. And I watched you help it; your face was so anxious—you insinuated the spoon with such an expression—I couldn’t describe it——”
Norah burst out laughing.