“Never! Regular ripper, ain’t she? By Jove! I thought this dinner would be simply deadly—politics and religion, and all that rot. The mater always makes me come, because she says there’s intellectual conversation. My God!”
Frank laughed at the idea of Mrs. Barlow-Basset combining instruction with amusement for her son at Miss Ley’s dinner-table.
“But Mrs. Castillyon’s a bit of all right, I can tell you. Little baggage! And she don’t mind what you say to her. . . . Why, she isn’t like a lady at all.”
“Is that a great recommendation?”
“Well, ladies ain’t amusing, are they?” You talk to ’em of the Academy and all that sort of rot, and you’ve got to take care you don’t swear. Ladies may be all very well to marry, but upon my soul, for giving you a good time I prefer them a bit lower in the scale.”
A little later, on the stairs, when they were going up to the drawing-room, Reggie slipped his arm through Frank’s.
“I say, old man, don’t give me away if my mater thanks you for asking me to dinner on Saturday.”
“But I haven’t. Neither have I the least desire that you should dine with me on that day.”
“Good Lord! d’you think I want to come—and talk about bugs and beetles all the evening? Not much! I’m going to dine with a little girl I know—typewriter, my boy, and a real love touch. Stunning little thing, I can tell you.”
“But I don’t see why, because you wish to entertain a young person connected with typewriting, I should imperil my immortal soul.”