“Where did Uncle Chris go?” asked Jill. “I want to speak to him.”
“He’s in the stage-box, with Mrs Peagrim.”
“With Mrs Peagrim?”
“Proposing to her,” said Freddie solemnly.
Jill stared.
“Proposing to Mrs Peagrim? What do you mean?”
Freddie drew her aside, and began to explain.
§ 4.
In the dimness of the stage-box, his eyes a little glassy and a dull despair in his soul, Uncle Chris was wondering how to begin. In his hot youth he had been rather a devil of a fellow in between dances, a coo-er of soft phrases and a stealer of never very stoutly withheld kisses. He remembered one time in Bangalore … but that had nothing to do with the case. The point was, how to begin with Mrs Peagrim. The fact that twenty-five years ago he had crushed in his arms beneath the shadows of the deodars a girl whose name he had forgotten, though he remembered that she had worn a dress of some pink stuff, was immaterial and irrelevant. Was he to crush Mrs Peagrim in his arms? Not, thought Uncle Chris to himself, on a bet. He contented himself for the moment with bending an intense gaze upon her and asking if she was tired.
“A little,” panted Mrs Peagrim, who, though she danced often and vigorously, was never in the best of condition, owing to her habit of neutralizing the beneficient effects of exercise by surreptitious candy-eating. “I’m a little out of breath.”