“You’ve never seen my Vaudrey cousins, have you?” he asked, with his mouth full. “I can’t stick ’em at any price, they’re such frumps. I’ll tell ’em all about you; it’ll make them beastly sick.”
Bertha raised her eyebrows. “And do you object to frumps?”
“I simply loathe them. At the last tutor’s I was at, the old chap’s wife was the most awful old geezer you ever saw. So I wrote and told my mater that I was afraid my morals were being corrupted.”
“And did she take you away?”
“Well, by a curious coincidence, the old chap wrote the very same day, and told the pater if he didn’t remove me he’d give me the shoot. So I sent in my resignation, and told him his cigars were poisonous, and cleared out.”
“Don’t you think you’d better sit on a chair?” said Bertha. “You must be very uncomfortable on that footstool.”
“Oh no, not at all. After a Turkey carpet and a dining-room table, there’s nothing so comfy as a footstool. A chair always makes me feel respectable—and dull.”
Bertha thought Gerald rather a nice name.
“How long are you staying in London?”
“Oh, only a month, worse luck. Then I’ve got to go to the States to make my fortune and reform.”