Putting on the social gloss, he
called it, whenever she laughed at his remarks and told him he would
be a God-send at some of her dinners.
"Is it quite hopeless?" she asked him that evening.
"Quite! As far removed from possibility as I am from a seat in the
Cabinet."
"But you might if you took up politics."
"Exactly, the point of absolute certainty being that I never shall."
She waited awhile, letting the conversation drift as it liked; then
she dipped her oar again.
"Do you ever hunt or shoot now?"
"Hunt, yes, for jobs. I've made that feeble joke before to somebody
else. No--neither."
"We had some rather good days with the pheasants this year down at
Apsley."
"Did you?"
"Yes, Harold got sixty-seven birds one day."
"Lucky dog! Have you finished? Well, look here, we'll come along to
my rooms--I'm on the first floor now; I hate talking in these places.
You won't have to climb up all those stairs this time, and I'll give
you some more of that coffee."
She needed no second persuasion. In the drift of her mind, she fancied
she saw impressions floating by, first one and then another,
impressions that he was more tractable this evening, more likely to
be won a little to her side; for social though she was--the blood
in her veins to the finger tips--she still cared for this Bohemian
brother of hers; considered it trouble well spent to bring him to
her way of thinking.
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