“I wanted to prime you about your critique of Lady Ildegonde, you know. Now, Tommy, it is understood, Lauderdale is to be snubbed and punished for her impertinence in daring to act me, in Camille’s dresses.”
“Darling, quite so! Of course. I had it nearly written. Dearest, you don’t trust your Tommy.”
“Not so much darling dear, now, if you don’t mind,” said Lady Scilly. “We are alone, and this child doesn’t need impressing. It fidgets me.”
“All right, sweetheart—I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Ptomaine, quite obligingly; but talk of fidgeting, she herself was in a terrible state. “Is it too early for tea?”
“Too late you mean, Tommy. What is the matter with you? Have you got a headache?”
“Three distinct headaches,” said poor Tommy. “Did three first nights last night, and got a separate headache for each.”
“How interesting!” said Lady Scilly. “I mean I am very sorry. Is there nothing I can do?”
“No, no, nothing. I have experience of these. Nothing but complete rest will do any good. If I could just lie down and darken the room and think of nothing for an hour.”
Lady Scilly got up to go after such a plain hint as that, and we were just opening the door when it opened itself and let in the millionaire!
Mrs. Ptomaine made the best of it. She got up to receive him with a very pained smile on the side of her face next Lady Scilly, and said to her in an undertone, “No chance for me, you see! This man will want his tea. Must you go?”