XIV.
A FINE DAY.
'I see nothing whatever to laugh at,' said Mrs. Hilary coldly, when I had finished.
'I did not ask you to laugh,' I observed mildly. 'I mentioned it merely as a typical case.'
'It's not typical,' she said, and took up her embroidery. But a moment later she added—
'Poor boy! I'm not surprised!'
'I'm not surprised either,' I remarked. 'It is, however, extremely deplorable.'
'It's your own fault. Why did you introduce him?'
'A book,' I observed, 'might be written on the Injustice of the Just. How could I suppose that he would?'
By the way, I may as well state what he—that is, my young cousin George—had done. Unless one is a genius, it is best to aim at being intelligible.
Well, he was in love; and with a view of providing him with another house at which he might be likely to meet the adored object, I presented him to my friend Lady Mickleham.
94
