“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