“There's a dash of Satan himself in that red-headed girl,” said Lord Robert. “She understands a man before he understands himself.”
“She's as natural as Nature,” said Drake. “And what lips—what a mouth!”
“Irish, isn't she? Oh, Manx! What's Manx, I wonder?”
The night was very warm and close, and there was hardly more air in the courtyard. The sound of the band came to them there, and Glory, who had danced with nearly everybody within, must needs dance by herself without, because the music was more sweet and subdued out there, and dancing in the darkness was like a dream.
“Come and sit down on the seat, Glory,” said Polly fretfully; “you are getting on my nerves, dear.”
“Glory,” said Drake, “how do the Londoners strike you?”
“Much like other mortals,” said Glory; “no better, no worse—only funnier.”
The men laughed at that description, and Glory proceeded to give imitations of London manners—the high handshake, the “Ha-ha” of the mumps, the mouthing of the canon, and the mincing of Mr. Golightly.
Drake bellowed with delight; Lord Robert drawled out a long owlish laugh; Polly Love said spitefully, “You might give us your friend, the new curate, next, dearest,” and then Glory went down like a shot.
“Really,” began Drake, “it's not hospital nursing, you know——”