Philippa smiled, a little sadly. “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m not very robust, that’s all,” she returned, patiently. “Is this Diana—the baby Diana I used to hear about when we were schoolgirls?”
Diana, who had entered the hall with Mayne, shook hands with the brusqueness which characterizes the young girl when she is at the same time shy and aggressive. “Affected fool,” was her brief mental verdict, as she glared at Philippa’s artless, unfashionable hat and brown sandals.
“Mr. Mayne—Miss Burton,” murmured Cecily.
“We have met before—at Lady Wilmot’s, haven’t we?” smiled Philippa, as they shook hands.
The door opened at the moment to admit Robert.
“Ah, I thought I heard voices!” he exclaimed, genially. “How do you do, Miss Burton?”
Diana giggled as she retired with Mayne to the window-seat.
“Robert’s up and down like a dog in a fair,” she whispered, irreverently. “He’ll get on splendidly with the History-Book. What an idiot she looks in that Twopenny Tube dress, doesn’t she? ... and then you and I and Cis can play about and amuse ourselves, and have a lovely time. What are you staring at, Dick? Don’t. She’ll think you’re admiring her; and she’s just as conceited as a peacock already.”
CHAPTER IX
“WHAT a sweet garden you have!” exclaimed Philippa, putting down her coffee-cup. They had returned to the yew enclosure after lunch. She had thrown aside her hat with one of the free sweeping movements which Lady Wilmot characterized as Whitmanesque, and the breeze stirred the ripples of her thick, dark hair.