“What a pussy-cat you are!” Dolly laughed, noticing Lal’s fastidious movements. “Do you manicure your hands?”
“I rather think that is a deadly insult. No, I do not manicure my hands; I am merely clean.”
“Merely clean! You’re hard on the rest of us.” Dolly was thinking of Lucian as he had appeared after half an hour of weeding in the violet-bed. She held out her own hand, soft, rosy, crinkled by the hot water. “There are stains on my fingers; I can’t get them off without taking the skin, too; so I leave them on. Am I not clean, please?”
Lal was in danger of losing his head, and kissing the pretty palm that lay in his, “I don’t see any stains,” he said. Dolly withdrew it, colouring at his tone. She pulled down her sleeves, and told herself she was a fool to forget that men are fools.
“Do you always do as your sister tells you?” she asked, abruptly.
“Miss Fane, do you always do as your brother tells you?”
“I? Not often,” Dolly frankly admitted. “I do as I like.”
“You’re more independent than I am: I do what Angela likes, except on serious and important questions of principle. It saves so much trouble, you know; I can do no wrong, like the king.”
“What principle was involved in your staying this afternoon?”
Lal was dumb, manifestly embarrassed by this sudden attack.