blazing look from a pair of glowing eyes.
Naughty old thing
, thought the marquess, much amused.
I believe she’s got a crush on me
.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sally carefully sponged her rubber wrinkles in the morning, wishing heartily that she could tear the whole mess from her face. But the role of Aunt Mabel had to be kept up, the pouter pigeon corset to be struggled into, and the stuffy, hot old ladies’ clothes to be put on.
It was going to be another very long day.
She drank her tea—brought in by the maid—and ate her Osborne biscuits and found that her stomach was still rumbling, and so she went in search of the breakfast room, eventually being guided to it by a footman.
It transpired that everyone else, with the exception of Peter Firkin, was breakfasting in their rooms. Sally helped herself to a generous portion of bacon and grilled kidneys from the enormous array of dishes on the sideboard and sat down primly opposite Mr. Firkin, whose nose was buried in the morning paper.
She hoped he would not trouble to engage her in conversation, but no sooner had she begun to eat than she became aware of one large hazel eye surveying her over the top of the newspaper.
“Aunt Mabel?”
Sally put down her knife and fork with a little sigh. “Yes, Mr. Firkin?”
“I say, do you give chappies advice as well as the gels?”
“Oh, yes, especially after I have eaten something and woken up properly,” said Sally repressively.
“Haw, jolly good,” said Mr. Firkin, throwing aside the newspaper so that it fell across the marmalade. “Fact is, I’m awfully much in need of someone to natter to about
things
.”
Sally sighed. “Natter away, Mr. Firkin,” she said.
“Well, haw, haw, it’s jolly awkward getting it out, ’specially as I’ve always been one of the strong, silent types, don’t you know, eh what, haw. Fact is… I’m in love.” And with that admission Mr. Firkin blushed like a schoolboy and buried his nose in his coffee cup.
Sally surveyed him with some amusement, took several hasty bites of her breakfast, and urged, “Do go on.”
“Don’t know how to begin,” said Mr. Firkin, throwing himself back in his chair, crossing his legs, and swinging one foot so that it smacked up against the underside of the table, sending a small wave of Sally’s tea cascading over her breakfast plate.
“Try,” said Sally, resolving to try to eat breakfast when Mr. Firkin was in a less energetic state.
“It’s like this,” he said in a rush. “I’m most awfully, frightfully,
terribly
smitten with Miss Wyndham.”
Lovely Mr. Firkin! Brave Mr. Firkin! Splendid Mr. Firkin!
“And she’s in love with you,” said Sally, smiling.
“Oh, no. I think she’s in love with Paul.”
Stupid, dreary,
useless
Mr. Firkin.
“Are you
sure
?”
“Well, stands to reason. He’s got the title, he’s terribly rich, he’s handsome. Any gel would prefer him to me.”
“Oh,
yes
,” breathed Sally dreamily, and then caught his huffy look of surprise.
“No, no, I don’t mean that,” she said hurriedly. “I mean one would think so. On the other hand”—Sally crossed her fingers behind her back—“you are a remarkably good-looking young man. Yes, I would say you are definitely what I would call attractive.”
Peter Firkin blushed and looked at her adoringly.
“It is necessary,” went on Sally cautiously, “to take some action. It is no use sitting around inarticulate. You must have courage! You must woo her. And you must tell his lordship, the marquess, that your feelings are engaged, so that he will not come between you and Miss Wyndham. I happen to know that his lordship is indifferent to Miss Wyndham.”
“I say, you can’t go around saying things like that to another chappie when the chappie’s your friend! And Paul… well, he can be a funny sort of cove. He might laugh—and—and I don’t think I could
bear
that.”
“I shall speak to him if you like,” volunteered Sally, completely forgetting
Naughty old thing
, thought the marquess, much amused.
I believe she’s got a crush on me
.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sally carefully sponged her rubber wrinkles in the morning, wishing heartily that she could tear the whole mess from her face. But the role of Aunt Mabel had to be kept up, the pouter pigeon corset to be struggled into, and the stuffy, hot old ladies’ clothes to be put on.
It was going to be another very long day.
She drank her tea—brought in by the maid—and ate her Osborne biscuits and found that her stomach was still rumbling, and so she went in search of the breakfast room, eventually being guided to it by a footman.
It transpired that everyone else, with the exception of Peter Firkin, was breakfasting in their rooms. Sally helped herself to a generous portion of bacon and grilled kidneys from the enormous array of dishes on the sideboard and sat down primly opposite Mr. Firkin, whose nose was buried in the morning paper.
She hoped he would not trouble to engage her in conversation, but no sooner had she begun to eat than she became aware of one large hazel eye surveying her over the top of the newspaper.
“Aunt Mabel?”
Sally put down her knife and fork with a little sigh. “Yes, Mr. Firkin?”
“I say, do you give chappies advice as well as the gels?”
“Oh, yes, especially after I have eaten something and woken up properly,” said Sally repressively.
“Haw, jolly good,” said Mr. Firkin, throwing aside the newspaper so that it fell across the marmalade. “Fact is, I’m awfully much in need of someone to natter to about
things
.”
Sally sighed. “Natter away, Mr. Firkin,” she said.
“Well, haw, haw, it’s jolly awkward getting it out, ’specially as I’ve always been one of the strong, silent types, don’t you know, eh what, haw. Fact is… I’m in love.” And with that admission Mr. Firkin blushed like a schoolboy and buried his nose in his coffee cup.
Sally surveyed him with some amusement, took several hasty bites of her breakfast, and urged, “Do go on.”
“Don’t know how to begin,” said Mr. Firkin, throwing himself back in his chair, crossing his legs, and swinging one foot so that it smacked up against the underside of the table, sending a small wave of Sally’s tea cascading over her breakfast plate.
“Try,” said Sally, resolving to try to eat breakfast when Mr. Firkin was in a less energetic state.
“It’s like this,” he said in a rush. “I’m most awfully, frightfully,
terribly
smitten with Miss Wyndham.”
Lovely Mr. Firkin! Brave Mr. Firkin! Splendid Mr. Firkin!
“And she’s in love with you,” said Sally, smiling.
“Oh, no. I think she’s in love with Paul.”
Stupid, dreary,
useless
Mr. Firkin.
“Are you
sure
?”
“Well, stands to reason. He’s got the title, he’s terribly rich, he’s handsome. Any gel would prefer him to me.”
“Oh,
yes
,” breathed Sally dreamily, and then caught his huffy look of surprise.
“No, no, I don’t mean that,” she said hurriedly. “I mean one would think so. On the other hand”—Sally crossed her fingers behind her back—“you are a remarkably good-looking young man. Yes, I would say you are definitely what I would call attractive.”
Peter Firkin blushed and looked at her adoringly.
“It is necessary,” went on Sally cautiously, “to take some action. It is no use sitting around inarticulate. You must have courage! You must woo her. And you must tell his lordship, the marquess, that your feelings are engaged, so that he will not come between you and Miss Wyndham. I happen to know that his lordship is indifferent to Miss Wyndham.”
“I say, you can’t go around saying things like that to another chappie when the chappie’s your friend! And Paul… well, he can be a funny sort of cove. He might laugh—and—and I don’t think I could
bear
that.”
“I shall speak to him if you like,” volunteered Sally, completely forgetting
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