Drake was handing out the cups as Glory filled them. He was looking at her attentively, vexed at the change in her manner since John Storm entered. When he returned to his seat on the sofa he began to twitch the ear of her pug, which lay coiled up asleep beside him, calling it an ugly little pestilence, and wondering why she carried it about with her. Glory protested that it was an angel of a dog, whereupon he supposed it was now dreaming of paradise—listen!—and then there were audible snores in the silence, and everybody laughed, and Glory screamed.
“I declare, on my honour, my dear,” said Drake with a mischievous look at John, “the creature is uglier than the beast that did the business on the day we eloped.”
“Eloped!” cried Rosa and Lord Robert together.
“Why, did you never hear that Glory eloped with me?”
Glory was trying to drown his voice with hollow laughter.
“She was seven and I was six and a half, and she had proposed to me in the orchard the day before!”
“Anybody have more tea? No? Some sally-lunn, perhaps?” and then more laughter.
“Hold your tongue, Glory! Nobody wants your tea! Let us hear the story,” said Rosa.
“Why, yes, certainly,” said Lord Robert, and everybody laughed again.
“She was all for travel and triumphal processions in those days——”