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Mrs. Combermere sat on a straight-backed chair,
tilting it forward, her skirt drawn up to her knees, lier thick-stockinged
legs and big boots for all the world to see.
"Well, Ellen, whom did you have?"
"Ronder and his aunt, the Bentinck-Majors, Charlotte Kyle and Major
Drake."
"Sorry I couldn't have been there. What did you give them?"
"Soup, fish salad, cutlets, chocolate souffle, sardines on toast."
"What drink?"
"Sherry, claret, lemonade for Charlotte, whisky."
"Any catastrophes?"
"No, I don't think so. Bentinck-Major sang afterwards."
"Hum--not sorry I missed _that_. When was it over?"
"About eleven."
"What did you ask them for?"
"For the Ronders."
Mrs. Combermere, raising one foot, kicked a coal into blaze.
"Tea will be in in a minute.... Now, I'll tell you for your good, my dear
Ellen, that I don't like your Ronder."
Miss Stiles laughed. "Oh, you needn't mind me, Betsy. You never have. Why
don't you?"
"In the first place, he's stupid."
Miss Stiles laughed again.
"Never wronger in your life. I thought you were smarter than that.


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