The Squire had never found courage to broach the fact of the offer to Orabel, who looks as though her blue eyes would wither the sheet of foreign notepaper in front of her.
“You know, Orabel,” puts in Annis, “we did hear something long ago about papa and mamma promising somebody or other out in India should have a chance to court you.”
“Oh, do say ‘yes,’ Orabel,” pleads a chorus of little sisters. “It will be so lovely to have a wedding, and Phil can be a page and wear a fancy dress.”
“Can he?” growls Philip. “I’d like to catch myself in lace and velvet like those kids at the Hemmings’ last week. Orabel, I think you ought to send him your portrait. Let him know, at least, what he’s wooing.”
With these words Philip beats a prudent retreat, and Orabel gives utterance to such tones that Annis, trembling at her side, is almost in tears.
“Has it come to this,” Orabel asks, “that I, the secretary of the Mount Athene Club, should be affronted, insulted by a letter like this? Am I not Orabel Jancy? Am I not the pioneer of a new and emancipating system? And who is this Harold Kingdon that he dares to cross my path with his jests concerning infantile betrothal?”