Part 8 (1/2)
”Before you go any further,” says Luttrell, ”I won't have that plate.
Nothing shall induce me. So you may spare your trouble.”
”Then you may go without any, as I myself intend eating all the others.”
”Mrs. Ma.s.sereene, you are my only friend. I appeal to you; is it fair?
Just look at all she is keeping for herself. If I die for it, I will get my rights,” exclaims Tedcastle, goaded into activity, and springing from his rec.u.mbent position, makes straight for the tray. There is a short but decisive battle; and then, victory being decided in favor of Luttrell, he makes a successful raid upon the fruit, and retires covered with glory and a good deal of juice.
”Coward, thief! won't I pay you for this?” cries Molly, viciously.
”I wouldn't use school-boy slang if I were you,” returns Luttrell, with provoking coolness, and an evident irritating appreciation of the fruit.
Fortunately for all parties, at this moment John appears upon the scene.
”It _is_ warm,” says he, sinking on the gra.s.s, under the weak impression that he is imparting information.
”I think there is thunder in the air,” says Let.i.tia, with a mischievous glance at the late combatants, at which they laugh in spite of themselves.
”Not at all, my dear; you are romancing,” says ignorant John. ”Well, Molly Bawn, where is my tea? Have you kept me any?”
”As if I would forget _you_! Is it not an extraordinary thing, Letty, that Sarah cannot be induced to bring us a tea-pot? Now, I want more, and must only wait her pleasure.”
”Remonstrate with her,” says John.
”I am tired of doing so. Only yesterday I had a very lengthy argument with her on the subject, to the effect that as it was I who was having the tea, and not she, surely I might be allowed to have it the way I wished. When I had exhausted my eloquence, and was nearly on the verge of tears, I discovered that she was still at the very point from which we started. 'But the tea is far more genteeler, Miss Molly, when brought up without the tea-pot. It spoils the look of the tray.' I said 'Yes, the _want_ of it does,' with much indignation; but I might as well have kept my temper.”
”Much _better_,” says Luttrell, placidly.
”I do hate having my tea poured out for me,” goes on Molly, not deigning to notice him. ”I am convinced Sarah lived with a retired tallow-chandler, or something equally horrible, before she came to us.
She has one idol to which she sacrifices morning, noon, and night, and I think she calls it 'style.'”
”And what is that?” interposes Luttrell, anxiously.
”I don't know, but I think it has something to do with not putting the tea-pot on the tray, for instance, and taking the pretty fresh covers off the drawing-room chairs when any one is coming, to convince them of the green damask beneath. And once when, during a pa.s.sing fit of insanity, I dressed my hair into a pyramid, she told me I looked 'stylish.' It took me some time to recover that shock to my vanity.”
”I like 'stylish' people myself,” says John. ”Lady Barton, I am positive, is just what Sarah means by that, and I admire her immensely,--within bounds, of course, my dear Let.i.tia.”
”Dreadful, vulgar woman!” says Molly, with a frown. ”I'm sure I wouldn't name Letty in the same day with her.”
”We all know you are notoriously jealous of her,” says John. ”Her meridian charms eclipse yours of the dawn.”
”How poetical!” laughs Molly. ”But the thing to see is Let.i.tia producing the children when her ladys.h.i.+p comes to pay a visit. She always reminds me of the Mother of the Gracchi. Now, confess it, Letty, don't you think Lady Barton's diamonds and rubies and emeralds grow pale and l.u.s.treless beside your living jewels?”
”Indeed I do,” returns Let.i.tia, with the readiest, most unexpected simplicity.
”Let.i.tia,” cries Molly, touched, giving her a little hug, ”I do think you are the dearest, sweetest, truest old goose in the world.”
”Nonsense, my dear!” says Let.i.tia, with a slow pleased blush that is at once so youthful and so lovely.