Drewitt was leading him to the other end of the room.
"Please remember that I brought you as moral, not as military support, Richard," he said. "Moral support is always in the van. You are a civilian now. You have ceased to be a soldier."
Lady Drewitt was talking to a little white-haired woman of vast volubility and rapid change of expression. She had hard eyes, and a skin that in tint reminded Beresford of putty.
Lady Drewitt introduced Drewitt, and added Beresford as if he were an afterthought. She was obviously annoyed by his presence. Mrs. Crisp turned to Drewitt and proceeded to deluge him with short, jerky sentences, her words seeming to jostle each other as they streamed from her lips. Sometimes the first letters of two words would become transposed, with rather startling results.
"So unfortunate, Lord Drewitt. My niece has a severe headache. Quite prostrate. She stripped in the treet in Piccadilly. Such a dangerous place you know. Every one was so nice about it. A clergyman with black spats and such delightful manners. Long ones, you know, right up to the knee. He was most sympathetic. I think it's a tooth; but the doctor says it's an over-active brain. I want her to have it out. My dear father always did. He hadn't any when he died. We buried him at Brookwood. Such a dreadful journey. I remember I lost my handkerchief, and I had such a cold. My dear mother followed him in a year." Having
