The Duchess, greatly diverted by his demeanour, and reinforced on her
other side by an amusing, sad dog of thirty, who wrote wicked novels,
thoroughly enjoyed her dinner. There are so many reasons for enjoying
one's dinner; some people do because they like to meet their
fellow-creatures; some because they like being seen at certain houses;
some because they have beauty to display or stories to tell; and some
because they enjoy eating and drinking simply as eating and drinking.
The Duchess, in that she enjoyed dining for all the reasons above cited,
except that of bothering her ancient head about whose house she was seen
at, was extremely pleased with her entertainment. She wagged her old
head--white now, quite frankly, after many years of essays in difficult
tints--whispered to her novelist, and made love to Tommy quite
shamelessly.
"You look like an Eastern potentate, you are so silent and serious," she
told him once. "Do I bore you so horribly, or is it Miss Letchworth?"
"I am not bored at all, Duchess," answered the boy simply; "I am
thinking."
"And what are you thinking about?"
Tommy hesitated. Under her frivolous manner he knew the Duchess had a
heart, and very human sympathies.
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