Meanwhile Zai has descended the staircase, and, as she reaches the great square hall, Lord Beranger enters the house.
“Good evening, papa,” she says, lovingly twining her arm into his, “I was afraid I was late, but it seems it must be early, as you have only just come in.”
“Good evening, my pet,” says papa to this, his favourite daughter. “You are quite right in thinking it is late, but we have been taking our post-prandial cigar and coffee under the stars. Might I ask what you are so radiant for? Is there a big party on to-night?”
“The Meredyths’ ‘At Home,’ you know. Is it possible you have forgotten that Trixy is to make her débût to-night as an engaged young person?”
“Ugh!” Lord Beranger mutters to himself, half aloud. “Poor Trixy!” Then he remembers his wife’s admonition, and goes on blandly: “Stubbs isn’t a bad sort, Zai; a little too much flesh, and a little, too little, breeding; but we can’t have everything, child, and money makes the mare to go.”
“I hate money,” Zai answers in a low voice. “I would not marry Mr. Stubbs if he were ten times richer.”
“Tut, tut, my pet. You must get romantic notions out of your head—romance doesn’t pay now-a-days. Good hard cash down, that’s the thing, and when you have nailed that, it’s time enough to indulge in other fancies.”
“Papa, how wicked you are. That’s one of Mamma’s sentiments. I don’t like to hear you say anything that is not right.”
“Don’t you? well, I won’t. Kiss me, little one, as a proof of forgiveness.”
Zai goes on tiptoe, and putting her arms round his neck, kisses him heartily, forgetful of the detriment to her bouquet of Noisette roses.