“His mamma thought you had. She did her very best to warn me. I rather think she considered that your young affections were also entangled. I said to her solemnly, ‘My dear Mrs. March—I beg your pardon—my dear Mrs. _de Luttrelle_ March—of course he is in love with Isobel. I expect young men to be in love with her. I am in love with her myself.’” “Piggy, you didn’t!” “No, m’ dear, but I should have liked to. She is so very large and pink that the temptation to say it, and to watch the pink turn puce, was almost more than I could resist. But you have interrupted me. I was about to break to you a portentous fact. Our Henry is in love.” “Oh, Piggy!” said Isobel. “Yes,” continued Henry’s chief—“Henry is undoubtedly for it. Another lost soul. It’s always these promising lads that are snatched by the predatory sex.” “Piggy—we’re not——” “M’ dear, you _are_. It’s axiomatic, beyond cavil or argument. Like the python in the natural history books, you fascinate us first, and then engulf us.” Isobel allowed a fleeting smile to lift the corners of her very pretty mouth. “Oh, Piggy, what a mouthful you would be!” she murmured. “Henry,” pursued Sir Julian—“Henry is in the fascinated stage. He blushed one of the most modestly revealing blushes I have ever beheld. The whole story is of the most thrillingly romantic and intriguing nature, and I regret to say, m’ dear, that I cannot tell you a single word of it.” Lady Le Mesurier took up a blue silk thread. “Oh, Piggy!” she said reproachfully. Sir Julian beamed upon her. “My official duty forbids,” he said, with great enjoyment. “Dismiss the indecent curiosity which I see stamped upon your every feature. Upon Henry’s affair my lips are sealed. I am a tomb. I merely wish to have a small bet with you as to whether Henry’s mamma will queer his pitch or not.” “But, Piggy darling, how can I lay odds if I don’t know anything? Tell me, is she pretty?” “Isobel, is that the spirit in which to approach this solemn subject? As an old married woman, you should ask, Is she virtuous? Is she thrifty? Is she worthy of Henry? And to all these questions I should make the same reply—I do not know.” Isobel leaned forward, and still with that faint, delightful smile she pricked the back of Sir Julian’s hand sharply with the point of her embroidery needle. “The serpent’s tooth!” he said, and opened his book. “Isobel, you interrupt my studies. I merely wish to commend three aspects of the case to your feminine intuition. First—Henry is in love; second—he has yet to reckon with his mamma; third—I may at any time ring you up and instruct you to prepare the guest chamber for Henry’s girl.” Lady Le Mesurier began to work a blue ribbon bow round the stalks of some pink and white daisies. “You’re rather a lamb, Piggy,” she said. CHAPTER XII