for some froggie?”
Albert blushed again and looked miserably into his teacup for inspiration.
“Well, y’know,” said a chubby young man who rejoiced in the nickname of Waffles, “Frenchies is supposed to be hot stuff, what? Bags of ooh la-la, eh, Albert?”
Lisbeth Blair poured more tea with a graceful, swanlike motion. “Pwease don’t tease poor Albert,” she said, in her childlike speech. “The most correct young men do have these wittle wapses with foreigners. Take my cousin Freddie. Absolutely dottie over our Fräulein, he was.”
“Don’t know how you tewwible men can look at foreigners,” said Amy with a bewildered air. “After all, I mean, it’s not
Bwittish.
The Germans are all dumplings and sausages and the French are all frog’s legs.”
“Hey, what!” roared Waffles. “Did your mam’selle have frog’s legs, Albert? Hey, good that. Frog’s legs.” He laughed so inordinately at his own wit, that he turned purple in the face and had to be slapped on the back by his friends. “Anyway,” he added when he had recovered, “none of us has a look in when Andrew Harvey’s around.”
An unlovely flush rose up Amy’s slender neck. “You know, Waffles,” she remarked in a high, strident voice, “you really are a common type of boor.”
There was a sudden silence while everyone else looked uncomfortable and wondered what to say.
The thin young man’s pale eyes wandered around the room in search of a change of topic. His eyes lighted appreciatively on Lucy who sat demurely beside MacGregor at the next table. “That’s a damned pretty girl,” he remarked in an undertone which rang around the terrace. The pansy-brown eyes of the Blair sisters rested momentarily on Lucy, who returned their stares coolly, and then gracefully turned her head to ask MacGregor if he would like more tea. “Beautifully done,” hissed the butler and then sat back to watch the repercussions. Lucy’s instinctive arrogance of manner had flustered the sisters. Only someone with wealth and power could afford to look at
them
like that.
“Oh, very pretty if you wike chocolate-box gowns,” whispered Amy, smoothing her own lace dress. The thin young man who appeared to be called Boo by his friends continued to rake Lucy with his pale eyes.
“You, sir,” said MacGregor suddenly in an imperious, high-clipped voice, fixing Boo with a cold stare. “I find your looks impertinent, fellow. Kindly restrict your attentions to your own party.” Boo rose to his unlovely feet, for once dithering and unsure.
“My sincere apologies, sir. But the beauty of your … er … daughter made me forget myself.”
“Then remember yourself in future,” drawled MacGregor, turning an indifferent shoulder.
The Blair party were now desperate to be introduced to the newcomers. Arrogance and rudeness, they knew, were only ever directed toward them by members of a higher caste.
But MacGregor was rising to his feet and holding out his arm to Lucy. “Come, my dear. I find the atmosphere of this place oppressive.”
They made a magnificent exit followed by the avid stares of the Blair party. “She must be some sort of foweign woyalty,” whispered Lisbeth. “Find out who she is, Boo!”
But despite a generous tip, the waiter could not supply them with any information and they watched in silence as the mysterious couple made their way along the promenade.
“Very good for a start,” MacGregor was saying. “Now the one called Boo is Lord David Sythe, and a bad lot. Sort that pinches the housemaids’ bottoms. Young Albert is the Honorable Albert Wemsworth; pots of money, nice lad. Waffles is Jeremy Wafflington; parents in tea, rich, stupid. What did you think?”
“They’re
horrible,”
gasped Lucy, clutching her hat as an errant breeze whipped along the promenade, sending the striped awnings and flags cracking merrily. “Do you mean I have to behave like
them
… sneering and spiteful and cruel?”
“They’re not all like
Albert blushed again and looked miserably into his teacup for inspiration.
“Well, y’know,” said a chubby young man who rejoiced in the nickname of Waffles, “Frenchies is supposed to be hot stuff, what? Bags of ooh la-la, eh, Albert?”
Lisbeth Blair poured more tea with a graceful, swanlike motion. “Pwease don’t tease poor Albert,” she said, in her childlike speech. “The most correct young men do have these wittle wapses with foreigners. Take my cousin Freddie. Absolutely dottie over our Fräulein, he was.”
“Don’t know how you tewwible men can look at foreigners,” said Amy with a bewildered air. “After all, I mean, it’s not
Bwittish.
The Germans are all dumplings and sausages and the French are all frog’s legs.”
“Hey, what!” roared Waffles. “Did your mam’selle have frog’s legs, Albert? Hey, good that. Frog’s legs.” He laughed so inordinately at his own wit, that he turned purple in the face and had to be slapped on the back by his friends. “Anyway,” he added when he had recovered, “none of us has a look in when Andrew Harvey’s around.”
An unlovely flush rose up Amy’s slender neck. “You know, Waffles,” she remarked in a high, strident voice, “you really are a common type of boor.”
There was a sudden silence while everyone else looked uncomfortable and wondered what to say.
The thin young man’s pale eyes wandered around the room in search of a change of topic. His eyes lighted appreciatively on Lucy who sat demurely beside MacGregor at the next table. “That’s a damned pretty girl,” he remarked in an undertone which rang around the terrace. The pansy-brown eyes of the Blair sisters rested momentarily on Lucy, who returned their stares coolly, and then gracefully turned her head to ask MacGregor if he would like more tea. “Beautifully done,” hissed the butler and then sat back to watch the repercussions. Lucy’s instinctive arrogance of manner had flustered the sisters. Only someone with wealth and power could afford to look at
them
like that.
“Oh, very pretty if you wike chocolate-box gowns,” whispered Amy, smoothing her own lace dress. The thin young man who appeared to be called Boo by his friends continued to rake Lucy with his pale eyes.
“You, sir,” said MacGregor suddenly in an imperious, high-clipped voice, fixing Boo with a cold stare. “I find your looks impertinent, fellow. Kindly restrict your attentions to your own party.” Boo rose to his unlovely feet, for once dithering and unsure.
“My sincere apologies, sir. But the beauty of your … er … daughter made me forget myself.”
“Then remember yourself in future,” drawled MacGregor, turning an indifferent shoulder.
The Blair party were now desperate to be introduced to the newcomers. Arrogance and rudeness, they knew, were only ever directed toward them by members of a higher caste.
But MacGregor was rising to his feet and holding out his arm to Lucy. “Come, my dear. I find the atmosphere of this place oppressive.”
They made a magnificent exit followed by the avid stares of the Blair party. “She must be some sort of foweign woyalty,” whispered Lisbeth. “Find out who she is, Boo!”
But despite a generous tip, the waiter could not supply them with any information and they watched in silence as the mysterious couple made their way along the promenade.
“Very good for a start,” MacGregor was saying. “Now the one called Boo is Lord David Sythe, and a bad lot. Sort that pinches the housemaids’ bottoms. Young Albert is the Honorable Albert Wemsworth; pots of money, nice lad. Waffles is Jeremy Wafflington; parents in tea, rich, stupid. What did you think?”
“They’re
horrible,”
gasped Lucy, clutching her hat as an errant breeze whipped along the promenade, sending the striped awnings and flags cracking merrily. “Do you mean I have to behave like
them
… sneering and spiteful and cruel?”
“They’re not all like
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