Why, even the little useless snob and tuft-hunter, the Haddock, that tailor’s dummy and parody of a man, cast sheep’s eyes and made what he called “love” to her when down from Oxford (and was duly snubbed for it and for his wretched fopperies, snobberies, and folly). He’d have to put the Haddock across his knee one of these days.
Then there was his old school pal and Sandhurst senior, Ormonde Delorme, who frequently stayed at, and had just left, Monksmead —fairly dotty about her. She certainly liked Delorme—and no wonder, so handsome, clever, accomplished, and so fine a gentleman. Rich, too. Better Ormonde than another—but, God! what pain even to think of it…. Why had he cleared off so suddenly, by the way, and obviously in trouble, though he would not admit it?…
Lucille emerged from a French window and came swinging across the terrace. The young man, his face aglow, radiant, rose to meet her. It was a fine face—with that look on it. Ordinarily it was somewhat marred by a slightly cynical grimness of the mouth and a hint of trouble in the eyes—a face a little too old for its age.
“Have a game at tennis before tea, young Piggy-wig?” asked Lucille as she linked her arm in his.
“No, young Piggy-wee,” replied Dam. “Gettin’ old an’ fat. Joints stiffenin’. Come an’ sit down and hear the words of wisdom of your old Uncle Dammiculs, the Wise Man of Monksmead.”
“Come off it, Dammy. Lazy little beast. Fat little brute,” commented the lady.
As Damocles de Warrenne was six feet two inches high, and twelve stone of iron-hard muscle, the insults fell but lightly upon him.
“I will, though,” she continued. “I shan’t have the opportunity of hearing many more of your words of wisdom for a time, as you go back on Monday. And you’ll be the panting prey of a gang of giggling girls at the garden party and dance to-morrow…. Why on earth must we muck up your last week-day with rotten ‘functions’. You don’t want to dance and you don’t want to garden-part in the least.”
“ … Grumper means it most kindly but … we want you to ourselves the last day or two … anyhow….”
“D’you want me to yourself, Piggy-wee?” asked Dam, trying to speak lightly and off-handedly.
“Of course I do, you Ass. Shan’t see you for centuries and months. Nothing to do but weep salt tears till Christmas. Go into a decline or a red nose very likely. Mind you write to me twice a week at the very least,” replied Lucille, and added:—