“Deplorable!”
“She is a tax in sulkiness upon her mother. The poor woman is weary of living with a corpse. In my humanity—I remembered you.”
“Bring her to me.”
“We shall be your debtors.”
“At least—I will tell you whether she will ever laugh. What mischief have we brewing now?”
Tom Temple had bethought himself of some fresh piece of boyish buffoonery, in which the girl whom he had drawn to victory in the chariot-race had joined him. It was nothing more complex than a game of double blind-man’s buff. The furniture was pushed aside into corners, and the salon prepared for a lively chase.
“Hortense, Hortense, come and play!”
It was little Anne of Sussex, Castlemaine’s child, whisking a scarf in one hand, while she held her skirts up with the other.
“Tom Temple and I are to be blind first. I am to catch the men, he—the ladies.”
Lord Gore made her a grand obeisance.