SIR CHARLES. I'm sure George doesn't gallop her on the road. Very
steady-goin' fellow, old George.
HUNTINGDON. Oh, yes; George is all right, sir.
LADY DEDMOND. They ought to have had children.
HUNTINGDON. Expect they're pretty glad now they haven't. I really
don't know what to say, ma'am.
SIR CHARLES. Saving your presence, you know, Reginald, I've often
noticed parsons' daughters grow up queer. Get too much morality and
rice puddin'.
LADY DEDMOND. [With a clear look] Charles!
SIR CHARLES. What was she like when you were kids?
HUNTINGDON. Oh, all right. Could be rather a little devil, of
course, when her monkey was up.
SIR CHARLES. I'm fond of her. Nothing she wants that she hasn't
got, is there?
HUNTINGDON. Never heard her say so.
SIR CHARLES. [Dimly] I don't know whether old George is a bit too
matter of fact for her. H'm?
[A short silence.]
LADY DEDMOND. There's a Mr. Malise coming here to-night. I forget
if you know him.
HUNTINGDON. Yes. Rather a thorough-bred mongrel.
LADY DEDMOND. He's literary. [With hesitation] You--you don't
think he--puts--er--ideas into her head?
HUNTINGDON. I asked Greyman, the novelist, about him; seems he's a
bit of an Ishmaelite, even among those fellows. Can't see Clare----
LADY DEDMOND. No. Only, the great thing is that she shouldn't be
encouraged. Listen!--It is her-coming in. I can hear their voices.
Gone to her room. What a blessing that man isn't here yet! [The
door bell rings] Tt! There he is, I expect.
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