“He did that, did he?”
“He did. I don't remember half he said, I was so angry. Oh, but such a funny thing happened! I can't help laughing at it now, though I felt nearly ready to cry with rage. He raved and I stormed—I'm afraid we must have made an awful noise in our kala juggah. Protect my character, dear, if it's all over Simla by tomorrow—and then he bobbed forward in the middle of this insanity—I firmly believe the man's demented—and kissed me!”
“Morals above reproach,” purred Mrs. Mallowe.
“So they were—so they are! It was the most absurd kiss. I don't believe he'd ever kissed a woman in his life before. I threw my head back, and it was a sort of slidy, pecking dab, just on the end of the chin—here.” Mrs. Hauksbee tapped her masculine little chin with her fan. “Then, of course, I was furiously angry, and told him that he was no gentleman, and I was sorry I'd ever met him, and so on. He was crushed so easily that I couldn't be very angry. Then I came away straight to you.”
“Was this before or after supper?”
“Oh! before—oceans before. Isn't it perfectly disgusting?”
“Let me think. I withhold judgment till tomorrow. Morning brings counsel.”
But morning brought only a servant with a dainty bouquet of Annandale roses for Mrs. Hauksbee to wear at the dance at Viceregal Lodge that night.
“He doesn't seem to be very penitent,” said Mrs. Mallowe. “What's the billet-doux in the centre?”
Mrs. Hauksbee opened the neatly folded note,—another accomplishment that she had taught Otis,—read it, and groaned tragically.