“My dear Dora,” said I, politely, “how can you imagine it could possibly be a question of persuasion?”
“That might be taken two ways,” said Dora. “Like Palmerston’s ‘Dear Sir, I’ll lose no time in reading your book.’” Dora is a minx.
“I fear,” said I, “that my pedantic historical sense must venture to correct you. It was Lord Beaconsfield.”
“Well, he got it from Palmerston,” insisted Dora.
“You children must not quarrel,” interposed my aunt, in the fond, maternal tone which I find peculiarly unpleasant. “Marcus will see how his engagements stand, and let us know in a day or two.”
“When do you propose to start?” I asked.
“Quite soon. On the 20th.
“I will let you know finally in good time,” said I.
As I accompanied them downstairs, I heard a door at the end of the passage open, and turning I saw Carlotta’s pretty head thrust past the jamb, and her eyes fixed on the visitors. I motioned her back, sharply, and my aunt and Dora made an unsuspecting exit. The noise of their departing chariot wheels was music to my ears.
Carlotta came rushing out of her sitting-room followed by Miss Griggs, protesting.