This from my own flesh and blood!
Millie Dixon gave me a laughing nod over her shoulder, and busied herself preparing the cup that should have the effect Carrie suggested. I sat down, and composed myself to listen to the restful chatter that was supposed not to interest me. Mrs. Loring Chatterton, at my side, was rippling gently on the subject of a School of Art Needlework Exhibition, while Carrie and Mrs. Carmichael talked Marshall and Snelgrove to Cicely Vicars and Mrs. Julian Joyce. I have no disdain for ladies’ babble—it is quite as entertaining as starting-price and stock-exchange gossip, and much prettier. But I couldn’t get Chatterton’s remark out of my mind.
“Cream or lemon, Mr. Butterfield?” called Miss Dixon from the other side of the room.
“Yes, if you please,” I answered absently, while Miss Dixon looked a deprecating query as to when I should be sensible. I roused, and turned to Mrs. Loring Chatterton.
“Where is Loring to-day?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied. “I told him I shouldn’t want him this afternoon, so he said he would count the dreary hours till joy returned. I expect he went to count them at some club.”
“Loring always was ardent,” I remarked, looking meditatively into my cup. “I seem to remember that kind of thing from Loring before. Long before you knew him, Mrs. Chatterton.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Butterfield?”
“Nothing, my dear Mrs. Chatterton,” I replied. “Nothing out of the way. But you don’t suppose that Loring had the good fortune to happen on the perfect gem without—what shall I say?—preliminary prospecting?”
Mrs. Chatterton and I are old friends. She laughed.