“Oh! I thought Vernon Harcourt might have told you,” said Charlie. “You and he seemed so confidential the other evening.”
“Suppose you ask him yourself, Mr. Herbert? But, at any rate, it won’t be till the week after next.” Here everybody laughed, and the girl, seeing that she had “given herself away,” looked confused.
“Tell him not to be rude, Sheila. What business is it of his? Say you won’t go to his picnic, and then it will be a dismal failure.” Mrs. Blount stood alongside her protégée and looked threateningly at Master Charlie, who pretended to be shocked at his faux pas, and went down on one knee to Sheila to implore forgiveness.
“I’ve a great mind to box your ears, Mr. Herbert!” she said, as her face lighted up with a smile of genuine mirth, “but I suppose I must forgive you this time. Now, what about this picnic? that’s the real question, and where is it to be?”
“I vote for the Hermitage,” said Imogen. “Don’t you, Hilda? I drove you there one day with ‘Matchless.’”
“A lovely spot,” said Mrs. Bruce; “only I was afraid the mare would jump over the cliff once. The road is lovely; I feel sure all the world will come. We must have half-a-dozen four-in-hands—Imogen and I will be chaperons. I suppose you young men can forage up two more?”
“Miss Claremont!” suggested Jack Clarke. “She is so nice.”
“Quite agree with you,” said Imogen; “but she is not married yet. Suppose you ask Mrs. Wendover, of the Châlet, she is so kind, and, at the same time, capable of keeping order, which is necessary, Mr. Herbert, isn’t it?”
“Now, don’t be severe, Mrs. Blount! All you young married women get so dreadfully proper, and talk alarmingly about your husbands. I’ll find security for good behaviour.”
“Only my fun,” said Imogen. “But I’m afraid you’ve hurt Sheila’s feelings. Has she forgiven you?”