“Aw—Fwank—what is it?”
“What dress will your lordship wear at the ball?”
“Aw—aw—plain bwack, of cawse. A white chawker.”
“What gloves, your lordship? White or straw?”
“Stwaw—stwaw.”
The servant, touching his hat, retired.
“His lordship,” as Mr Swinton appeared to be, returned to his tranquil contemplation of the light upon Cormorant Rock.
There was no longer tranquillity for the relict of the retail storekeeper. Those magic words, “my lord,” had set her soul in a flutter. A live lord within six feet of her. Gracious me!
It is the lady’s privilege to speak first, as also to break through the boundaries of reserve. And of this Mrs Girdwood was not slow to avail herself.
“You are a stranger, sir, I presume—to our country, as well as to Newport?”