“——are——?” she challenged.
“——and an income-tax return——”
“I am beneath your roof, Mr. Butterfield,” she replied, with the dignity of St. James’s comedy.
Caroline evidently disapproved strongly. She caught my eye.
“I don’t think you’re a bit nice this evening, Rollo,” she said. “If I were Millicent”—she straightened her back—“I wouldn’t dine with you. Don’t take any notice of him, Millie dear.”
“Perhaps,” I replied, “the disparity in years is too great. Think so, Bassishaw?”
I looked round the flowers at him. He seemed rather embarrassed, and said nothing. I filled Millicent’s glass, and turned to her.
“What do you think Bassishaw was saying to me just before you came in?”
I received a kick. Bassishaw, behind the flowers, was very red indeed.
“Heaven forbid that I should guess!” Millicent replied. “Men are frail creatures.”