Lady Coote was sitting on a garden seat doing wool-work. The subject was a disconsolate and somewhat misshapen young woman weeping over an urn.
Lady Coote made room for Jimmy by her side, and he promptly, being a tactful young man, admired her work.
“Do you like it?” said Lady Coote, pleased. “It was begun by my Aunt Selina the week before she died. Cancer of the liver, poor thing.”
“How beastly,” said Jimmy.
“And how is the arm?”
“Oh, it’s feeling quite all right. Bit of a nuisance and all that, you know.”
“You’ll have to be careful,” said Lady Coote in a warning voice. “I’ve known blood poisoning set in—and in that case you might lose your arm altogether.”
“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?”