Tyson was not very far away. Moreover, she was glad that she had on her
nice ultramarine tea-gown with the green _moirê_ front. (They were
wearing those colors in town that season.)

At Thorneytoft a few hours later Stanistreet's tongue was running on as
usual, when Tyson pulled him up with a jerk. "Hold hard. Do you know
you're talking about the future Mrs. Nevill Tyson?"

Stanistreet tried to keep calm, for he was poised on his waist across
the edge of the billiard-table. As it was, he lost his balance at the
critical moment, and it ruined his stroke. He looked at the cloth, then
at his cue, with the puzzled air which people generally affect in these
circumstances.

"Great Scott!" said he, "how did I manage that?"

The exclamation may or may not have referred to the stroke.

Tyson looked at his friend with a smile which suggested that he expected
adverse criticism, and was prepared to deal temperately with it.

"Why not?" said he.

Stanistreet, however, said nothing. He was absorbed in chalking the end
of his cue. His silence gave Tyson no chance; it left too much to the
imagination.

"Have you any objection?"

"Well, isn't the lady a little young for a fine old country gentleman