And yet the cue was on the call-boy's lips; the drama was being played out, and a net she never dreamed of closing about her.
By tea-time the party had nearly assembled; they took it in the big drawing-room, chilled people coming gladly near the blazing fire, drinking hot tea, eating tea-cakes and hot biscuits as if dinner were twenty-four hours away.
Lucy Richmond, a big blonde, married to one of the best shots, came to sit by Denise. She was a dull, stupid woman, deeply impressed by herself. Hostesses were profoundly bored by Mrs Richmond, but she delighted in house-parties and was comfortably certain that Gus, her lean little husband, was only asked for her sake.
"So nice to be here again, dear Lady Blakeney. I do love your big house. And now tell me all about the babies, and how they are."
Denise nibbled a sandwich, and looked for rescue. She was lamentably ignorant as to flannel undervests and patent foods.
"The little one is in knickers now, I expect, isn't he? I hope he wears...."
Denise's appealing eyes raked Sir Thomas from his chair; they called openly for help.
"That he wears really fine wool," said Mrs Richmond, heavily. "No, Sir Thomas, run away; you're not interested in children's clothes."
"In knickerbockers," giggled Denise, faintly.
"Not going to come out with the guns in 'em really, are you?" said Sir Thomas, blandly, ignoring everything except the last words. "Sportin' of you, Mrs Rich—very. Has Raleigh taught you shootin' then?"