This time it was Dorothy who mused. She was a calculating young woman; the wife of His Impudence had to be; and she was far too shrewd to suppose for a moment that her aunt could ever escape her destiny, which was to be imposed upon by her own flesh and blood while hardening her heart against the rest of the world. Dorothy, and not Stan, had had to keep that flat going, and the flat before it; unless Fortune & Brooks turned up trumps—a rather remote contingency—she would have to continue to do so; and she was quite casuistical enough to argue that, while Aunt Eliza might keep her old Spurrs, Aunt Grace might properly be victimized because Dorothy loved Aunt Grace. Therefore there were musings in Dorothy’s wide-angle blue eyes ... musings that only the sound of a key in the outer lock interrupted.
“Hallo, that’s His Impudence,” Dorothy exclaimed. “I do hope he hasn’t brought anybody. I shall simply rush out if he has.”
Stan hadn’t. He came in at the door drawing off a pair of lemon-yellow gloves, said “Hallo, Aunt Grace,” and rang the bell. He next said, “Hallo, Dot! Been out? Beastly smelly in town. No, I’ve not had tea. Look here, you’ve eaten all the hot cakes; never mind; bread and butter’ll do, if you’ve got some jam—no, honey. Got an invitation for you, Dot, to lunch, with Ferrers on Monday; can’t you buck up and manage it?... Well, Aunt Grace, what brings you up here? Bit off your beat, isn’t it? Awfully rude of me, I know, but it is a long way. Glad I came in.”
“I’ve been to see the Cosimo Pratts,” said Lady Tasker.
Dorothy looked suddenly up.
“Oh, auntie, you didn’t tell me that!” she exclaimed.
A grin lighted up Stan’s good-looking face.
“Oh? How many annas to the rupee are they to-day? By Jove, they are a rum lot up there! Any new prime cuts?”
“Stan, you mustn’t!” said Dorothy, peremptorily. “Please don’t! Don’t listen to him, auntie; he’s outrageous.”
But His Impudence went on, with his mouth full of bread and butter.