“Cold what? I never heard of such a thing: It’s enough to kill you.”
Mrs Montgomery took a deep-drawn breath of languor.
“And would you care, doctor, so very much if it did?” she asked, as a page made his appearance with an ice-bucket and champagne.
“To toast our young Princess!”
“Oh, oh, Dr Cuncliffe? What a wicked man you are:” And for a solemn moment their thoughts went out in unison to the sea-girt land of their birth—Barkers’, Selfridges’, Brighton-pier, the Zoological gardens on a Sunday afternoon.
“Here’s to the good old country!” the doctor quaffed.
“The Bride, and,” Mrs Montgomery raised her glass, “the Old Folks at h-home.”
“The Old Folks at home!” he vaguely echoed.
“Bollinger, you naughty man,” the lady murmured, amiably seating herself on the causeuse at his side.
“You’ll find it dull here all alone after the Court has gone,” he observed, smiling down, a little despotically, on to her bright, abundant hair.