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Otherwise he'd be delightful, just as he is with Miss Destrey, with whom he doesn't have to think of such things." "You're fond of him, aren't you?" I asked, beginning again to dig for the worm; for Sir Ralph was squatting beside me now, watching the point of my parasol. "Rather!" he exclaimed. "He's the finest fellow on earth. I should like to see him as happy as he deserves to be."
Kidder's round chin was in the air, and she wore an "I'm as good as you are, if not better" expression. The imps in Beechy's eyes were critically cataloguing each detail of the strangers' costumes, and Miss Destrey was interested in the yellow cat, who had come to tell her the tragic tale of the stolen mouse. The new arrivals were English.
Kidder, Miss Beechy Kidder, and Miss Destrey towards whatever point of the compass a guiding finger of theirs should signify. Therefore, if I could, I would have had terms, destination, day and hour of starting definitely arranged before that miraculously-produced tea of Félicité's had turned to tannin.
"He is my late husband's cousin," explained Mrs. Kidder, "and he takes liberties sometimes, as he thinks Simon would not have approved of everything I do. But you needn't tell everything, Beechy." "Let's talk about Venice," said Miss Destrey with a lovely smile, which seemed all the more admirable as she had given us so few. "I have always longed to see Venice."
Kidder, of Colorado, and her party. Isn't it so, Barrymore?" "Yes," replied Terry stoutly. And that "yes" even if inadvertent, was equivalent I considered, to sign and seal. Mrs. Kidder beamed like an understudy for The Riviera Sun. Beechy twinkled demurely, and tossed her plaits over her shoulder. Even Miss Destrey, the white goddess, deigned to smile, straight at Terry and no other.
"Will you let me take you away?" was all that my lips said, but my eyes said more, in memory of that first moment of our meeting, which was, please God, to influence our whole future hers and mine. "Yes," she answered. "But I can't leave here without Aunt Kathryn." "You must go with Miss Destrey, Countess," I insisted.
"I believe I I'm going to like it by-and-by," gasped Beechy, her eyes as round as half-crowns, and as big. "Maida, have you fainted?" Miss Destrey looked back into the tonneau, her face pale, but radiant. "I wouldn't waste time fainting," said she. "I'm buckling on my wings." "Wish she were a coward!" I thought.
He stared for a minute, and then laughed. "I should tell you not to if I weren't certain that all the nice things in the world might be said on that subject with no more effect upon Miss Destrey than a shower of rain has on my duck's back. You must try and help me not to fall in love with her." "Why?" I asked.
"It's in three syllables, and 'prince' is only in one. Besides, Austrians are foreigners, and Englishmen aren't." "Is that what Miss Destrey said to your Mamma?" "No, because Mamma's a foreign Countess now, and it might have hurt her feelings. Maida said she felt more at home with a plain mister like Mr. Barrymore, for instance; only he's far from plain." "You consider him handsome?"
"It all depends on when Mamma allows me to be twenty," retorted the little wretch. And what lengths this indecently frank conversation might have reached between us I dare not think, had not an exclamation from Terry cut it short. "What do you say to that, Countess, and Miss Destrey?
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