'Oh! I say, I hope not.'
'I'm only warning you,' said Lady Coote.
'Where are you hanging out now?' inquired Mr. Thesiger. 'Town – or where?'
Considering that he knew the answer to his query perfectly well, he put the question with a praiseworthy amount of ingenuousness.
Lady Coote sighed heavily.
'Sir Oswald has taken the Duke of Alton's place. Letherbury. You know it, perhaps?'
'Oh, rather. Topping place, isn't it?'
'Oh, I don't know,' said Lady Coote. 'It's a very large place, and gloomy, you know. Rows of picture galleries with such forbidding-looking people. What they call Old Masters are very depressing, I think. You should have seen a little house we had in Yorkshire , Mr. Thesiger. When Sir Oswald was plain Mr. Coote. Such a nice lounge hall and a cheerful drawing-room with an inglenook – a white striped paper with a frieze of wistaria I chose for it, I remember. Satin stripe, you know, not moire. Much better taste, I always think. The dining-room faced north-east, so we didn't get much sun in it, but with a good bright scarlet paper and a set of those comic hunting prints – why, it was as cheerful as Christmas.'
In the excitement of these reminiscences, Lady Coote dropped several little balls of wool, which Jimmy dutifully retrieved.
'Thank you, my dear,' said Lady Coote. 'Now, what was I saying? Oh – about houses – yes, I do like a cheerful house. And choosing things for it gives you an interest.'
'I suppose Sir Oswald will be buying a place of his own one of these days,' suggested Jimmy. 'And then you can have it just as you like.'
Lady Coote shook her head sadly.
'Sir Oswald talks of a firm doing it – and you know what that means.'
'Oh! But they'd consult you!'
'It would be one of those grand places – all for the antique. They'd look down on the things I call comfortable and homey. Not but that Sir Oswald wasn't very comfortable and satisfied in his home always, and I daresay his tastes are just the same underneath. But nothing will suit him now but the best! He's got on wonderfully, and naturally he wants something to show for it, but many's the time I wonder where it will end.'
Jimmy looked sympathetic.
'It's like a runaway horse,' said Lady Coote. 'Got the bit between its teeth and away it goes. It's the same with Sir Oswald. He's got on, and he's got on, till he can't stop getting on. He's one of the richest men in England – but does that satisfy him? No, he wants still more. He wants to be – I don't know what he wants to be! I can tell you, it frightens me sometimes!'
'Like the Persian Johnny,' said Jimmy, 'who went about wailing for fresh worlds to conquer.'
Lady Coote nodded acquiescence without much knowing what Jimmy was talking about.
'What I wonder is – will his stomach stand it?' she went on tearfully. 'To have him an invalid – with his ideas – oh, it won't bear thinking of.'
'He looks very hearty,' said Jimmy, consolingly.
'He's got something on his mind,' said Lady Coote. 'Worried, that's what he is. I know.'
'What's he worried about?'
'I don't know. Perhaps something at the works. It's a great comfort for him having Mr. Bateman. Such an earnest young man – and so conscientious.'
'Marvellously conscientious,' agreed Jimmy.
'Oswald thinks a lot of Mr. Bateman's judgment. He says that Mr. Bateman is always right.'
'That was one of his worst characteristics years ago,' said Jimmy feelingly.
Lady Coote looked slightly puzzled.
'That was an awfully jolly weekend I had with you at Chimneys,' said Jimmy. 'I mean it would have been awfully jolly if it hadn't been for poor old Gerry kicking the bucket. Jolly nice girls.'
'I find girls very perplexing,' said Lady Coote. 'Not romantic, you know. Why, I embroidered some handkerchiefs for Sir Oswald with my own hair when we were engaged.'
'Did you?' said Jimmy. 'How marvellous. But I suppose girls haven't got long enough hair to do that nowadays.'
'That's true,' admitted Lady Coote. 'But, oh, it shows in lots of other ways. I remember when I was a girl, one of my – well, my young men – picked up a handful of gravel, and a girl who was with me said at once that he was treasuring it because my feet had trodden on it. Such a pretty idea, I thought. Though it turned out afterwards that he was taking a course of mineralogy – or do I mean geology? – at a technical school. But I liked the idea – and stealing a girl's handkerchief and treasuring it – all those sort of things.'
'Awkward if the girl wanted to blow her nose,' said the practical Mr. Thesiger.
Lady Coote laid down her wool-work and looked searchingly but kindly at him.
'Come now,' she said. 'Isn't there some nice girl that you fancy? That you'd like to work and make a little home for?'
Jimmy blushed and mumbled.
'I thought you got on very well with one of those girls at Chimneys that time – Vera Daventry.'
'Socks?'
'They do call her that,' admitted Lady Coote. 'I can't think why. It isn't pretty.'
'Oh, she's a topper,' said Jimmy. 'I'd like to meet her again.'
'She's coming down to stay with us next weekend.'
'Is she?' said Jimmy, trying to infuse a large amount of wistful longing into the two words.
'Yes. Would – would you like to come?'
'I would,' said Jimmy heartily. 'Thanks ever so much, Lady Coote.'
And reiterating fervent thanks, he left her.
Sir Oswald presently joined his wife.
'What has that young jackanapes been boring you about?' he demanded. 'I can't stand that young fellow.'
'He's a dear boy,' said Lady Coote. 'And so brave. Look how he got wounded last night.'
'Yes, messing around where he'd no business to be.'
'I think you're very unfair, Oswald.'
'Never done an honest day's work in his life. A real waster if there ever was one. He'd never get on if he had his way to make in the world.'
'You must have got your feet damp last night,' said Lady Coote. 'I hope you won't get pneumonia. Freddie Richards died of it the other day. Dear me, Oswald, it makes my blood run cold to think of you wandering about with a dangerous burglar loose in the grounds. He might have shot you. I've asked Mr. Thesiger down for next weekend, by the way.'
'Nonsense,' said Sir Oswald. 'I won't have that young man in my house, do you hear, Maria?'
'Why not?'
'That's my business.'
'I'm so sorry, dear,' said Lady Coote placidly. 'I've asked him now, so it can't be helped. Pick up that ball of pink wool, will you, Oswald?'
Sir Oswald complied, his face black as thunder. He looked at his wife and hesitated. Lady Coote was placidly threading her wool needle.
'I particularly don't want Thesiger down next weekend,' he said at last. 'I've heard a good deal about him from Bateman. He was at school with him.'
'What did Mr. Bateman say?'
'He'd no good to say of him. In fact, he warned me very seriously against him.'
'He did, did he?' said Lady Coote thoughtfully.
'And I have the highest respect for Bateman's judgment. I've never known him wrong.'
'Dear me,' said Lady Coote. 'What a mess I seem to have made of things. Of course, I should never have asked him if I had known. You should have told me all this before, Oswald. It's too late now.'
She began to roll up her work very carefully. Sir Oswald looked at her, made as if to speak, then shrugged his
