Not in the very least.
“Trixy will be so charmed to see you, Mr. Stubbs. She was just complaining of the country, and longing for some civilised London friend to come and enliven her—rustic neighbours are so very uninteresting, you know.”
Mr. Peter Stubbs reddens as if he were developing apoplectic symptoms, and smiles till he looks even more ugly than his wont.
“Did Miss Beatrix think of me when she longed for that civilised Londoner?” he asks with a simper. Trixy enters at this moment and makes an unmistakable moue at this question, but she is Lady Beranger’s daughter.
While she has been donning her mauve costume and thinking how nice she looks in it, she has realised the gratification it would be to have a carte blanche account at Worth’s.
“Of course I did, Mr. Stubbs,” she gushes effusively, with a beaming smile, “do you think I have forgotten already our charming chats in Belgrave Square, and our teas at your paradise in Park Lane?”
And she holds out a lovely plump hand, white as milk, which Mr. Stubbs takes and squeezes warmly.
“I see Zai at the far end of the lawn, I want to speak to her, so excuse me for a few minutes, Mr. Stubbs,” Lady Beranger says with delicious affability.
“Certainly! certainly! your ladyship. Miss Beatrix and I can manage to get along together remarkably well, I am sure; maybe we shall not mind if you find a good deal to say to Miss Zai,” he answers with a wink.
“Cad!” Lady Beranger mutters to herself as she steps out of the French casement. “Cad! vulgar wretch! Trixy will be thrown away on him, that is, her beauty will—as for herself, she is so avaricious and selfish that his money will make up for everything. Good Heavens! whose voices are those?”