Part 59 (2/2)

”What! Spooney?” says Tedcastle, laughing. ”I don't believe he could climb a ladder to save his life. Think of his pretty hands and his sweet little feet.”

”And his lisp,--and his new eyegla.s.s,” says Stafford.

”Never mind; I _will_ have him here,” declares Cecil, gayly. ”In spite of all you say, I positively adore that Grainger boy.”

”You seem to have a pa.s.sion for fools,” says Sir Penthony, a little bitterly, feeling some anger toward her.

”And you seem to have a talent for incivility,” retorts she, rather nettled. This ends the conversation.

Nevertheless Mr. Grainger is asked to come and give what a.s.sistance he can toward adorning Herst, which, when they take into consideration the ladylike whiteness of his hands and the general imbecility of his countenance, is not set at a very high value.

He is a tall, lanky youth, with more than the usual allowance of bone, but rather less of intellect; he is, however, full of ambition and smiles, and is amiability itself all round. He is also desperately addicted to Lady Stafford. He has a dear little moustache, that undergoes much encouragement from his thumb and first finger, and he has a captivating way of saying ”How charming!” or, ”Very sweet,” to anything that pleases him. And, as most things seem to meet his approbation, he makes these two brilliant remarks with startling frequency.

To Cecil he is a joy. In him she evidently finds a fund of amus.e.m.e.nt, as, during the three days it takes them to convert the ball-room, tea-room, etc., into perfumed bowers, she devotes herself exclusively to his society.

Perhaps the undisguised chagrin of Sir Penthony and Talbot Lowry as they witness her civility to Grainger goes far to add a zest to her enjoyment of that young man's exceedingly small talk.

After dinner on the third day all is nearly completed. A few more leaves, a few more flowers, a wreath or two to be distributed here and there, is all that remains to be done.

”I hate decorating in October,” Cecil says. ”There is such a dearth of flowers, and the gardeners get so greedy about the house plants. Every blossom looks as if it had been made the most of.”

”Well, I don't know,” replies Mr. Grainger, squeezing his gla.s.s into his eye with much difficulty, it being a new importation and hard to manage. When he has altered all his face into an appalling grin, and completely blocked the sight of one eye, he goes on affably: ”I think all this--er--very charming.”

”No? Do you? I'm _so_ glad. Do you know I believe you have wonderful taste? The way in which you tied that last bunch of trailing ivy had something about it absolutely artistic.”

”If it hadn't fallen to pieces directly afterward, which rather spoiled the effect,” says Sir Penthony, with an unkind smile.

”Did it? How sad! But then the idea remains, and that is everything.

Now, Mr. Grainger, please stand here--(will you move a little bit, Sir Penthony? Thanks)--just here--while I go up this ladder to satisfy myself about these flowers. By the bye,”--pausing on one of the rungs to look back,--”suppose I were to fall? Do you think you could catch me?”

”I only wish you would give me the opportunity of trying,” replies he, weakly.

”Beastly puppy!” mutters Sir Penthony, under his breath.

”Perhaps I shall, if you are good. Now look. Are they straight? Do they look well?” asks Cecil.

”Very sweet,” replies Mr. Grainger.

”Potts, hand me up some nails,” exclaims Lowry, impatiently, who is on another ladder close by, and has been an attentive and disgusted listener; addressing Potts, who stands lost in contemplation of Grainger. ”Look sharp, can't you? And tell me what you think of this.”

Pointing to his design on the wall. ”Is it 'all your fancy painted it?'

Is it 'lovely' and 'divine?' Answer.”

”Very sour, I think,” returns Mr. Potts, hitting off Grainger's voice to a nicety, while maintaining a countenance sufficiently innocent to border on the imbecile.

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