Cousin Kate

Chapter VI

Torquil did not appear at the breakfast-table on the following morning. Kate was not surprised, for experience had taught her that when a man went bosky to bed he awoke with a splitting headache, and a general feeling of being quite out of curl. When Lady Broome apologized, rather stiffly, for the incident, she replied, with her engaging twinkle: “He was in very merry pin, wasn’t he, ma’am? No need to ask you in what sort of cue he is this morning!” She saw that her aunt was staring at her, and added: “No need to beg my pardon either! I have frequently seen men in their altitudes, as the saying is. He wasn’t more than half-sprung, you know!”

“No,” agreed her ladyship slowly. “He wasn’t, was he?” She smiled, and said: “I daresay it is unnecessary for me to warn you not to mention the matter to him?”

“Quite unnecessary, dear aunt!” Kate assured her. “I don’t suppose he will retain the least recollection of it!”

This, when Torquil rejoined the family circle before dinner, was seen to be true. He was lethargic, and his eyes, which had shone with such unearthly brilliance, were a little clouded. But he smiled sleepily at Kate, and seemed to be in an unusually docile mood, and with no remembrance of anything that had happened after dinner on the previous evening. Trying to recollect, he frowned, and gave his head a little shake, as though in an attempt to shake off the mists in his brain. Before he could succeed in doing so, Sir Timothy, who had been watching him in what seemed to Kate to be disproportionate anxiety, rose shakily from his chair, muttering: “I am unwell. I must go to my own rooms. Give me your arm, one of you!”

A footman was instantly at his side, but was ousted by Dr Delabole, who said soothingly: “Lean on me, sir! That’s the way! You will soon be better—soon be better!”

Torquil had dragged himself to his feet, looking bewildered, but Lady Broome, who had not left her seat, said, without emotion: “Sit down, my son! You can do nothing to help him: it is not serious! He has been in a poor way all day, thanks to last night’s party, but he would come to dinner!”

She smiled consolingly, and her optimism was soon justified by the return of the doctor, who said, as he resumed his seat at the table, and picked up his knife and fork again, that it was a mere faintness: he had given Sir Timothy a restorative, and had left him in charge of his valet.

The evening surpassed in dullness all that had gone before it. Lady Broome was abstracted, and Torquil sleepy, and it was left to Dr Delabole to provide entertainment for Kate. He did this by challenging her to a game of cribbage. He said gaily that he was no match for her at backgammon, or piquet, but that he fancied himself to be a bit of a dab at cribbage. He enlivened the game with a constant flow of persiflage, and Kate could only be thankful when her aunt broke up the party soon after the tea-tray had been brought in.

Nothing occurred that night to disturb her rest, but on the following morning the doctor reported that Torquil was a trifle out of sorts, so she was deprived of her daily ride. As though to make up for this, Lady Broome took her out in her barouche, to visit the indigent sick, an unexciting occupation which made her think longingly of a busier if less comfortable life. She found herself wondering how long it would be before she could bring her visit to an end, but it was evident that Lady Broome had no idea of her leaving Staplewood until the autumn, and no suspicion that she might be bored there. Kate had begun to realize that her aunt had very little imagination: she was not herself bored at Staplewood, and could not understand how anyone (least of all an impoverished niece) could wish to be otherwhere. She had surrounded Kate with every luxury; she had clothed her expensively; she had bestowed gifts upon her; and while she brushed off any expressions of gratitude she did expect, perhaps unconsciously, that Kate should repay her with a grateful adoration.

Kate was grateful, but she could not love her aunt. In spite of her kindness, and her generosity, there was something in Lady Broome which repelled her. She more than once suspected that under the facade lay a cold and calculating nature; and tried to recall just what it was that her father had said about his half-sister. Something about her ambition, and how she was ready to go to all lengths to achieve it—but he had said it jokingly, not as though he had meant to disparage her. “She married Broome of Staplewood,” he had said, and had laughed. “Not a peer, but pretty well for Miss Minerva Malvern!”

But Papa had not known how proud his sister had become of Staplewood, and the Broome heritage. To Kate, it seemed as if this pride had become an obsession: nothing, in her aunt’s esteem, ranked above it. She had taken Kate to the Muniment Room, and had shown her its contents, and Kate had dutifully admired, and marvelled, and said all that was proper. But she could not share her aunt’s enthusiasm. It did not seem to her that the unbroken line was of so much importance, but since it was made plain to her that Lady Broome considered it to be of the first importance she did not say so. Only she did wonder that her aunt should bestow so much more of her loving care upon Staplewood than upon her husband, or her son.

She was for ever talking about it, trying, as it appeared, to inspire Kate with something of her own feeling for the place. When she had discharged her errands of mercy, and had rejoined Kate in the carriage, she gave the order to drive home, and told Kate that few things afforded her more pleasure than to pass through the lodge-gates, and up the long, winding avenue to the house. “When I compare it to other people’s houses, I realize how superior it is,” she said simply.

The sublimity of this statement surprised a choke of laughter out of Kate, for which she immediately apologized, saying that she supposed everyone considered his own house to be superior.

Lady Broome put up her brows. “But how could they? Be it understood that I am not speaking of great houses, such as Chatsworth, or Holkham—though both are too modern for my taste! I daresay there may be some who admire them, but for my part I prefer the antique. I like to think of all the Broomes who have lived at Staplewood—for it dates back beyond the baronetcy, and although succeeding generations have added to it, nothing has ever been destroyed. That is an awe-inspiring thought, is it not?”

“Most sobering!” agreed Kate, a little dryly.

Missing the inflexion, Lady Broome said: “Yes, that is what I feel.” After a pause, she said dreamily: “Sometimes I wonder whether my successor will share my feeling. I hope so, but I don’t depend on it.”

“Your successor, ma’am?”

“Torquil’s wife. She will be a very fortunate young womans won’t she?”

“Why, yes, ma’am! I suppose she will.”

“Position, wealth, Staplewood, a house in the best part of London—” Lady Broome broke off, sighing. “That was a sad blow to me, you know: being obliged to shut it up. Before Sir Timothy’s health failed, we were used to spend several months in London, during the Season. I won’t conceal from you, my dear, that I enjoyed those months excessively! I don’t think there can have been a single ton party given for which I didn’t receive a card of invitation. I was famed for my own parties, and have frequently entertained the Prince Regent, besides other members of the Royal Family. You may readily conceive what it meant to me to be obliged to give it all up! But the doctors were insistent that London life would never do for Sir Timothy. His constitution has always been delicate. Even when we were first married, he was used to become exhausted for what seemed to me to be no cause at all. He was bored by the balls, and the drums, and the race-parties, and the Opera-nights of which I could never have enough, but because he knew how much I enjoyed that way of life he concealed his boredom from me. And I was too young, and perhaps too much intoxicated by my success, to realize it.” She smiled faintly. “I was successful, you know!” My parties were always amongst the biggest squeezes of the Season! But, naturally, when Sir Timothy suffered his first heart attack, and the doctors warned me that a continued residence in London would prove fatal, I perceived that it was my duty to abandon the fashionable life, and to devote myself entirely to Staplewood. I’ve accustomed myself, but I do, now and then, envy Torquil’s wife!”

Rendered vaguely uneasy by this speech, and acutely aware of the footmen standing rigidly behind her, Kate tried for a lighter note. “You should consider, Aunt Minerva, that Torquil’s wife may not share your sentiments! For anything you know, he may fall violently in love with a country-bred girl who would shrink from the town diversions which to you are so desirable!”

The barouche, having passed through the lodge-gates, was now bowling up the avenue. After a moment’s silence, Lady Broome said abruptly: “Would they not be desirable to you, Kate?”

Since she had never considered the question, it took Kate aback. She took time over her answer, and, as the house came into sight, replied hesitantly: “I don’t know. They might, I suppose.”

Lady Broome seemed to be satisfied, and said no more. In another few minutes, the barouche drew up, and the ladies alighted from it. As they entered the house, Kate was impelled to say: “Knowing myself to be quite ineligible, I have never permitted myself to think how it would be to become a fashionable lady. Which is just as well, perhaps, since I’m almost an ape-leader now!”

“What nonsense!” replied Lady Broome, amused. “Is there no gentleman for whom you feel a tendre?”

“Not one!” replied Kate blithely. “Oh, in my salad days I fancied myself to be in love with several dashing officers—and with one in particular! I’ve forgotten his name, but he was very handsome, and, I regret to confess, a very ramshackle person! I have heard that he married a woman of fortune—that, of course, was always an object with him!—and is now the father of a hopeful family!”

“I hope you don’t mean to tell me that you have no admirers! That, I must warn you, would be coming it very much too strong!”

“No, ma’am, I don’t mean to tell you that,” replied Kate, “but my admirers, owing to my want of fortune, think of me as an agreeable flirt, not as a wife. Only one of them ever made me an offer—and he was the most odious little mushroom!”

“Ah, the brother of your late employer! You told me about him, and very diverting I found it! But it is a sad fact, my love, that the lot of a single female who has no fortune is not a happy one. While she is young, and able to earn her bread, it may be supportable; but when one is old and unwanted—oh, let us not dwell upon such misery! It makes me shudder even to think of it!”

It made Kate shudder too, but inwardly. It was as though a cold hand had closed over her heart; and although, with the optimism of youth, she shook it off, it made her remember her unavailing search for employment, and ask herself if boredom was really so great a price to pay for security.

But the feeling that she was being enclosed in a silken net grew upon her during the following weeks; and, when she scolded herself for being so stupid, it occurred to her that she had very little money left in her purse, not enough to pay for the coach fare to London, and something akin to panic seized her. She might write to Sarah, begging her to come to her rescue, but Sarah had answered none of her letters, and the seed sown by Lady Broome had borne fruit. She did not doubt Sarah’s affection, but she had certainly been a charge on her, and it was possible that Sarah was thankful to be relieved of it. Things had changed since the days when Sarah had been her nurse: she was married now, and, besides her husband, she had his father and his nephews to care for. And even though she would probably still extend a welcome to her nursling, Kate recoiled from the thought of foisting herself on to her again, and for heaven only knew how long a period.

Meanwhile, nothing happened at Staplewood to relieve the monotony of its ordered days, the only variation being Church-going every Sunday. The family attended Divine Service in the village Church, which was conducted by the Vicar, a middle-aged cleric, with obsequious manners, who stood in unbecoming awe of Lady Broome, and preached long and very dull sermons. To these, however, the occupants of the Broorne pew were not obliged even to pretend to listen, this pew being screened from the rest of the congregation by walls of carved oak, dating from Jacobean times, and reminding Kate irresistibly of a loose-box.

To reach it, it was necessary to walk in procession down the aisle; and, since his infirmity made Sir Timothy’s progress slow, and Lady Broome inclined her head graciously whenever she perceived a known face, this was so like a Royal Visitation that Kate was torn between embarrassment and an improper inclination to giggle.

Driving to Church in the first of the two carriages which set out from Staplewood, with his lady beside him, and the two footmen perched up behind, seemed to be the only expedition Sir Timothy ever took beyond his gates; and although Kate suspected that he would have been pleased to have lingered in the porch, after the service, greeting friends and tenants, he was never permitted to do so, Lady Broome discouraging any tendency to loiter, either because there was a sharp wind blowing, or because to stand about was what his doctor particularly deprecated. In this she was ably seconded by Delabole, who insisted on Sir Timothy’s taking his arm, and conducted him tenderly back to the barouche. The party then drove back to Staplewood at a sedate pace, the second carriage being occupied by Kate, the doctor, and, when he was well enough to be dragged unwillingly to Church, Torquil.

But when the warmer weather came it brought with it a mild diversion, in the form of two al fresco parties, one being held at Staplewood, and the other at Nutfield Place, the residence of the Dunsters, where Kate was surprised to see Gurney Templecombe. He at once came up to her to ask how she did. “But no need to ask, Miss Malvern!” he said gallantly. “I can see you’re in high bloom!”

“Thank you, but how comes this about, sir? I had supposed you to be in London, escorting your sister to Almack’s!”

“No, no, I’m held to have done my duty, and have escaped! She’s engaged to be married, you know: notice will be in the Morning Post next week.”

“What, already?” she exclaimed.

He nodded, grinning. “Quite a triumph, ain’t it? Mind you, I knew how it would be: even I can see she’s a taking little thing! Amesbury popped the question before she’d been in town above a sennight! He’s a friend of mine: a very good fellow! Of course, m’mother said they must wait, but anyone could see she was in high croak! Well, what I mean is, it’s the best marriage she’s made for any of the girls—not that she did make it: they fell head over ears in love with each other!”

Kate disclosed this information to her aunt, as they drove back to Staplewood. Lady Broome laughed, and said: To Lord Amesbury! Well,—I’m sure I wish her very happy. I must own that I have the greatest admiration for Lady Templecombe: how she contrived to find eligible husbands for four daughters, and all in their first seasons, really does command applause! They are no more than respectably dowered, too: I should doubt if they have more than ten thousand apiece, and I shouldn’t have said that the elder girls had beauty enough to figure in London.”

“That can’t be said of the youngest, ma’am!”

“No, very true: Dorothea is remarkably pretty,” agreed her ladyship. “A lovely little pea-goose!”

Kate hesitated for a moment. “Mr Templecombe told me that the engagement won’t be announced until next week, but I thought you would wish to know of it earlier, in case—in case you think it wise to warn Torquil, Aunt Minerva.”

“My dear child,” said her ladyship, mildly amused, “have you lived with us for several weeks without discovering that, with Torquil, it is out of sight, out of mind? Oh, I don’t doubt this news will put him into a flame! After that he will glump for a day or two, before forgetting all about it. The case would have been different, of course, had I permitted him to dangle after her.”

Kate’s brow was wrinkled. She said: “Why didn’t you, ma’am? It seems to me such a suitable alliance!”

“I have other plans for Torquil,” replied her aunt lightly. “So, as is seen, had Lady Templecombe for Dorothea!”

Whatever Kate may have thought of this ruthless management of her son, she very soon saw that Lady Broome had exactly gauged the effect of the announcement on him. It did, at first, wind him up; and he talked, in a theatrical way, of Dolly’s having sold herself to the highest bidder; but he then fell into the mops, in which state of mind he was at outs with everyone, ripping up grievances, and subjecting his entourage to Turkish, treatment, as Kate roundly informed him. It seemed, for a moment, that he would take violent exception to this reproof, but after staring at her for a blazing instant he suddenly burst out laughing, snatched her into his arms in a breathtaking hug, and exclaimed: “I like you! Oh, I do like you, coz!”

“Well,” said Kate, disengaging herself, “I don’t know why you should, but I’m very much obliged to you!” She saw that this rebuff had brought back the lowering look to his face, and added: “Now don’t try to come the ugly with me, Torquil, for you’ll be taken at fault if you do!”

He looked at her, queerly smiling. “Not afraid of me, are you, coz?”

“Not in the least!”

There was a spark kindling in his eyes; he said softly: “Shall I make you afraid? No, I don’t think I will. And yet—and yet!—” His smile grew; he took her face between his slim, strong hands, and turned it up. An indefinable change came into his own face; his eyes grew brighter; his fingers slid down to her throat, and she felt them harden, and quiver.

From the doorway, a stern voice said imperatively: “Torquil!”

Torquil’s hands fell; he lifted them again, but to press them over his eyes. Kate, flushing, found herself confronting a stranger, who looked her over rather contemptuously, and then transferred his gaze to Torquil. He seemed but just to have arrived at Staplewood, and to have come from some distance, for he was wearing a long, caped driving-coat, which brushed the heels of his top-boots, and he was carrying his hat and gloves in one hand. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders, and very regular features; and Kate judged him to be about thirty years of age.

A sigh broke from Torquil; he uncovered his eyes, and turned, blinking at the stranger. “Why—why—Philip!” he exclaimed, starting forward with every sign of delight.

The stranger smiled at him. “Well, bantling? How do you do?” he said, holding out his hand.

Torquil clasped it eagerly. “Oh, famously! But how is this? Did we expect you? Have you come to stay?”

“For a day or two. No, you didn’t expect me. Am I unwelcome?”

“You will be, with Mama!” said Torquil, giggling. His eyes fell on Kate; he said: “Oh, are you there, coz? This is Philip, you know! Philip, this is Cousin Kate!”

She was too much surprised by his unaffected pleasure in his Cousin Philip’s arrival to take more than cursory note of the artless surprise in his voice when he saw that she was still in the room. When she recalled how viciously he had spoken to her of Philip Broome, she could only marvel at him, and congratulate herself on not having believed his accusations.

“Ah, yes!” said Philip, bowing slightly. “Cousin Kate!”

“I don’t think I can claim even remote kinship with you, sir,” she retorted, nettled by his tone.

“Can’t you? Why not?”

“I am merely Lady Broome’s half-niece. I can only be, at the best—or worst—a connexion of yours!”

This flash of spirit seemed to amuse him; a reluctant smile warmed his eyes; he said: “Bravo!”

“Philip, have you seen my father?” interrupted Torquil.

“No, not yet: Pennymore tells me that he’s not in very plump currant, and doesn’t leave his room until noon. Tenby is helping him to dress, so I came to find you instead.”

“Oh, yes! I’m glad you did: I have so much to tell you!”

Kate went quietly out of the room, her mind in turmoil. Although she had not believed that he could be responsible for the various accidents which had befallen Torquil, she had had no doubt that Torquil hated him, and she had been prepared to dislike him. But Torquil had astonished her by welcoming him with real pleasure; and she did not dislike him. He had given her every reason to do so; but when she had seen him standing in the doorway she had received the instant impression that she beheld a man in whom one could place one’s trust, without fearing to be betrayed. Then she had read the contempt in his eyes, and she had been as much shocked as enraged. What right, she asked herself, had he to despise her? What cause had she ever given him? How dared he? she silently demanded, lashing herself into a fury.

It was in this mood of burning chagrin that she encountered Lady Broome, halfway up the stairs. Lady Broome barred her progress, laying a hand on her arm, and saying, with a lightness at variance with the keen glance she directed at her face: “Whither away, Kate? You look to be out of reason cross! Can it be that Mr Philip Broome has set up your hackles? Oh, yes! I know that he has descended on us, and I am heartily sorry for it! We go on very much better without him. Don’t you like him?”

“No, ma’am, I do not!” replied Kate, with undue vehemence. I—I think him an—an odious person!”

“Do you? Well, so do I—to give you the word with no bark on it! But it won’t do to say so, you know: Sir Timothy dotes on him! His influence is one which I have always deprecated. He is a man of large ambitions, one of which, unless I much mistake the matter, is to succeed to the title and the estates. When I tell you that one life only stands between him and the realization of his ambition, you won’t be astonished that I should regard him with—how shall I put it—dread was the word which sprang to my tongue, but perhaps that is a little too strong! I’ll say, instead, apprehension.”

Kate regarded her with painful intensity. “Torquil told me once, ma’am, that all the accidents which had befallen him occurred when his cousin was staying at Staplewood. I didn’t believe that Mr Philip Broome could have been responsible for any of them, but—but was he?”

Lady Broome seemed to hesitate before replying: “It is hard to see how he could have been. You will not mention this, if you please!”

“No, ma’am,” Kate said obediently. She lingered, frowning, and then said, turning her eyes once more upon her aunt: “But I don’t understand! I had supposed Torquil to hold his cousin in—in positive hatred, but when he saw him, just now, he was glad!”

“Was he? Well, that doesn’t surprise me as much as it seems to have surprised you, my dear! Torquil is a creature of moods! He was used, when a child, to adore Philip, and I daresay some of that old feeling remains. Depend upon it, he will have come to cuffs with him before the day is out!”

He did not do so, but it was easy to see that his mood underwent a change, becoming steadily more uncertain as the day wore on. For this, Kate considered, Dr Delabole was a good deal to blame, for when Torquil dragged his cousin off to the stables he found an excuse to accompany them, showing, she thought, a sad want of tact. Nothing could have been more exactly calculated to set up Torquil’s back! He told the doctor, very rudely, that he was not wanted, and it had been Philip’s intervention which had averted an explosion. Philip had recommended him to try for a little conduct, and although he had flushed up to the roots of his hair he had subsided. It was obvious that he stood greatly in awe of Philip, which was not, thought Kate, at all surprising. It was a case of the weak character yielding to the strong: just as Lady Broome could with one word quell a sudden spurt of temper, so too could Philip.

When the party assembled for dinner, Sir Timothy came in leaning on Philip’s arm. He was pathetically glad to see his nephew again, speaking fondly to him, and regarding him with a mixture of pride and affection. Kate could not wonder at it, for the affection was clearly mutual, and Philip treated him with the deference which was almost wholly impossible to find in his son. The contrast between the man and the boy was painful: Torquil was beautiful, but his manners were those of a spoiled child. Towards his social inferiors he was arrogant, and although he was civil to his father and mother, his civility was grudging. Kate had never been able to discover a trace of affection in him for either of his parents, and had again and again been shocked by his indifference. He was obedient to his mother only because he feared her; his father he largely ignored. His temper was quite uncontrolled: the least thing would cause him to fly up into the boughs; and he could sulk for days. Philip, on the other hand, had good manners, and if his countenance was stern he had only to smile to make it easy to see why Sir Timothy loved him. There was nothing of the dandy in his appearance, but he dressed with a neatness and a propriety which cast into strong and unflattering relief Torquil’s negligent style.

Sir Timothy, when Kate came into the room, welcomed her with a smile, and an outstretched hand. “Ah, here she is!” he said. “Come here, my dear, and let me make my nephew known to you!”

“I have already had the honour of making Miss Malvern’s acquaintance, sir.”

“Oh, that is too bad! I had promised myself the pleasure of introducing you to her. She is our good angel—a ray of sunshine in the house!”

Philip bowed, politely. Kate, a good deal embarrassed, took the frail hand held out to her, but said: “Thank you, sir! You are a great deal too kind, but you are putting me to the blush. Besides, if you make me out to be beyond the common, Mr Broome will be disappointed!”

“By no means, Miss Malvern! I think you quite beyond the common.”

“Mr Broome—Miss Malvern!—What is all this formality?” asked Sir Timothy playfully. “Let me tell you, Philip, that we have decided that she shall be Cousin Kate!”

“Well, sir, I did so address her, but she refused to acknowledge the relationship.” He turned his head towards Lady Broome. “I understand she is your half-niece, Minerva?”

“My half-brother’s only child,” she answered shortly.

“Just so! I own I haven’t worked out the exact degree of our relationship, but she informs me that—at the worst—we can only be connections!”

“Oh, pooh! no need to stand upon points!” said Sir Timothy, brushing the objection aside. He smiled up at Kate, as she stood beside his chair. “She is the daughter of my old age, and that makes her your cousin.”

Kate could only be thankful that Pennymore chose at this moment to announce dinner. Sir Timothy, struggling to rise from his chair, found a strong hand under his elbow, and said: “Thank you, my boy. Not as steady on my pins as I was used to be! Now, if you’ll lend me your arm, we’ll go down to dinner.”

It occurred forcibly to Kate that Torquil’s support had been neither offered nor requested. He was lounging by one of the windows, his brow overcast; and it was not until Lady Broome called upon him to escort her that he was roused from abstraction. He got up, but muttered disagreeably that he wondered why she chose to go down on his arm rather than Matthew’s.

While Kate sat in her usual place at the dinner-table, on Sir Timothy’s right, Mr Philip Broome, was on his left; an arrangement that brought them opposite each other. It seemed to her that whenever she looked up she found that he was watching her, until at last, considerably ruffled, she tried to stare him down. She might have succeeded if the absurdity of it had not struck her, and made her utter an involuntary chuckle. Then, as this drew everyone’s attention to her, she lowered her gaze to her plate, and replied, in answer to her aunt’s demand to know what had amused her: “Nothing, ma’am: I beg your pardon!”

Torquil, who had been pushing the food about on his plate, thrust it away suddenly, and said: “Philip, will you play billiards after dinner?”

Philip looked at him under his brows, frowning a little. “Yes, if you wish,” he replied.

“Well, I do wish! I’m tired of playing with Matthew: he always lets me win. And Kate is a wretched player!”

“So you are obliged to let her win!” said the doctor quizzingly.

“No, I’m not,” said Torquil, staring at him. “Why should I?”

“Chivalry, dear boy! chivalry!”

“Oh, Kate don’t care for that stuff, do you, coz?”

“No, and isn’t it a fortunate circumstance?” she said brightly.

“Yes—Oh, you’re joking me!”

“No.”

“Have I put you into a miff?” he asked incredulously. “Oh, well, then, I’m sorry! If you care to join us tonight I’ll give you a game, and I will let you win!”

“Very handsome of you, Torquil, but I am going to play backgammon with your father.” She turned her shoulder on him as she spoke, and smiled at Sir Timothy. “You won’t let me win either, will you, sir?”

“Not if I can prevent you, my dear! But you are growing to be so expert that I doubt if I can hold you at bay for much longer!” He glanced at his nephew. “You must know that Kate indulges me with a game of piquet, or of backgammon, every evening, Philip.”

“Does she, sir?” said Philip dryly. “How very obliging of her!”