The lawyer extricated himself from the group, and moved to where Catherine’s golden head shone Madonna-like over the face of a little child.
“Affection of tom-cats,” quoth he, under his breath; “it is curious the way these women play with a piece of scandal like a cat with a mouse. It mustn’t die, or half the zest of the game would be gone. Catherine, my friend, you are different from the rest.”
During these digressions Mr. Carrington had brought himself within the ken of Lady Gillingham’s lorgnette. It appeared to the farmer that the great lady’s eyes were fixed critically upon his tie. His right shoulder blushed as he remembered that there was a three-inch rent there in the seam of his alpaca coat. Such is the judgment that overtakes those who are mistaken as to dates.
“Good-morning, Mr.—Mr. Carrington. We are admiring how beautifully you have managed everything for these poor people. So clean, and so—so airy. I am sure you must have suffered a great deal of inconvenience and worry.”
Mr. Carrington blushed. Porteus Carmagee, who was watching the drama from a distance, felt for Mr. Carrington a species of ironical pity. The farmer’s boots described an angle of ninety degrees with one another, and the vehement smirk upon his face made the redness thereof seem dangerously sultry.
“We have all been so interested, Mr. Carrington—”
“Very good of your ladyship, I’m sure.”
“I sent you an iron bedstead, you may remember. I hope it has been of use.”
“Great use, your ladyship.”
“Ah, that is right; and is your family quite well, Mr. Carrington? I hope none of you have contracted the disease?”