“Mr Riddell means Mr Parrett’s, I presume?” asked Mrs Patrick in her sweetest tones, looking hard at the speaker, and emphasising the “Mr”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “I’m sorry.”
“We shall miss Wyndham,” said the doctor.
“Yes, thank you,” replied Riddell, who at that moment was dodging vaguely in front of Miss Stringer as she stood solemnly waiting to get past him to the tea-table.
It was a relief when tea was at last ready, and when some other occupation was possible than that of looking at and being looked at by these two ladies.
“You’re not very fond of athletics, Riddell?” asked the doctor.
“No, sir,” answered Riddell, steadily avoiding the eyes of the females.
“I often think you’d be better if you took more exercise,” said the doctor.
“Judging by Mr Riddell’s looks,” said Mrs Patrick, “it would certainly seem as if he hardly did himself justice physically.”
This enigmatical sentence, which might have been a compliment or might have been a rebuke or might have meant neither, Riddell found himself quite unable to reply to appropriately, and therefore, like a sensible man, took a drink of tea instead. It was the first dawn of reviving presence of mind.