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"It's a most awkward situation," said Mrs. Sangrail. "Do you suppose they won't speak to one another?" "On the contrary, the difficulty will be to get them to leave off. Their remarks on each other's conduct and character have hitherto been governed by the fact that only four ounces of plain speaking can be sent through the post for a penny." "I can't put Dora off," said Mrs. Sangrail.
The trouble was, as he confided to Clovis Sangrail, that he never had enough available or even prospective cash at his command to enable him to fix the wager at a figure really worth winning.
Sangrail sleepily; "Lady Bastable has very kindly asked you to stay on here while I go to the MacGregors'." Clovis said suitable things in a highly unsuitable manner, and proceeded to make punitive expeditions among the breakfast dishes with a scowl on his face that would have driven the purr out of a peace conference.
The bird turned out to be an abstainer from the egg habit, and I'm told that the letters which passed between the two women were a revelation as to how much invective could be got on to a sheet of notepaper." "How ridiculous!" said Mrs. Sangrail. "Couldn't some of their friends compose the quarrel?"
Sangrail was almost equally devoted to her card winnings, but the prospect of conveniently warehousing her offspring for six days, and incidentally saving his railway fare to the north, reconciled her to the sacrifice; when Clovis made a belated appearance at the breakfast-table the bargain had been struck. "Just think," said Mrs.
Clovis Sangrail had sat unusually silent during the discussion on the possibilities of Siberian Magic; after lunch he side-tracked Lord Pabham into the comparative seclusion of the billiard-room and delivered himself of a searching question. "Have you such a thing as a she-wolf in your collection of wild animals? A she-wolf of moderately good temper?" Lord Pabham considered.
His mother nodded. "You've rather done it, haven't you?" he chuckled; "Jane Martlet has only been here five days, and she never stays less than a fortnight, even when she's asked definitely for a week. You'll never get her out of the house by Thursday." "Why should I?" asked Mrs. Sangrail; "she and Dora are good friends, aren't they? They used to be, as far as I remember."
"Dear Bertie," it ran; "I hope I haven't distracted your brain with the spoof letters I've been sending in the name of a fictitious Clotilde. You told me the other day that the servants, or somebody at your home, tampered with your letters, so I thought I would give any one that opened them something exciting to read. The shock might do them good. "Yours, "Clovis Sangrail." Mrs.
Sangrail was unable to argue the point; since Clovis had reached the age of seventeen she had never ceased to bewail his irrepressible waywardness to all her circle of acquaintances, and a polite scepticism would have greeted the slightest hint at a prospective reformation. She discarded the fruitless effort at cajolery and resorted to undisguised bribery.
In the list of wedding presents which the local newspaper published a fortnight or so later appeared the following item: "Brown saddle-horse, 'The Brogue, bridegroom's gift to bride." "Which shows," said Toby Mullet, "that he knew nothing." "Or else," said Clovis, "that he has a very pleasing wit." "Dora Bittholz is coming on Thursday," said Mrs. Sangrail. "This next Thursday?" asked Clovis
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