of a fox-terrier, and the patience and speed of a greyhound.”
But that was long ago, and it might be supposed that in such pleasant duties of retirement as the ushering out of dainty visitors from his wife’s tea-table his faculties had become blunted. Nor in the law-abiding precincts of Belgravia could there be scope for the old-time energy. Yet Mrs. Sadgrove, who knew the signs and portents of her husband’s face, looked twice at him with just a shade of anxiety as she asked whether he would take some tea.
“Thanks,” he said, and taking his cup he went and stood on the rug before the empty hearth. He stirred his tea slowly, with his eyes wandering from one to the other of the four women in the room.
“You good people seem singularly calm, considering that you must just have been listening to a very exciting story,” he remarked.
“Indeed, no,” replied Sybil, taking upon herself to answer. “The lady to whom you have just been doing the polite bored us intensely. Leonie says, for all the dash she’s
[66]
