“M’ dear.”
Lady Le Mesurier raised her charming blue eyes from the child’s frock which she was embroidering.
“I have news to break to you—news concerning the lad Henry. Prepare for a shock. He is another’s. You have lost him, my poor Isobel.”
“I never had him,” said Isobel placidly.
“His mamma thought you had. She did her very best to warn me. I rather think she considered that your young affections were also entangled. I said to her solemnly, ‘My dear Mrs. March—I beg your pardon—my dear Mrs. de Luttrelle March—of course he is in love with Isobel. I expect young men to be in love with her. I am in love with her myself.’”
“Piggy, you didn’t!”
“No, m’ dear, but I should have liked to. She is so very large and pink that the temptation to say it, and to watch the pink turn puce, was almost more than I could resist. But you have interrupted me. I was about to break to you a portentous fact. Our Henry is in love.”
“Oh, Piggy!” said Isobel.
“Yes,” continued Henry’s chief—“Henry is undoubtedly for it. Another lost soul. It’s always these promising lads that are snatched by the predatory sex.”
“Piggy—we’re not——”