Mrs.Jerry did not accompany them; she wanted to be seen with her trying stepdaughter as little as possible, and Tommy's had been the happy proposal that he should attend them alternately--"fling away my own figure to save yours," he had said gallantly to Mrs.Jerry.
"Do you mind ?" Lady Pippinworth asked.
"I mind nothing," he replied, "so long as I am with you." He had not meant to begin so near the point where they had last left off; he had meant to begin much farther back: but an irresistible desire came over him to make sure that she really did permit him to say this sort of thing.
Her only reply was a flutter of the little fans and a most contemptuous glance.
"Alice," said Tommy, in the old way.
"Well ?" "You don't understand what it is to me to say Alice again." "Many people call me Alice." "But they have a right to." "I supposed you thought you had a right to also." "No," said Tommy.

"That is why I do it." She strolled on, more scornful and helpless than ever.

Apparently it did not matter what one said to Lady Pippinworth; her pout kept it within the proprieties.
There was a magnificent sunset that evening, which dyed a snow-topped mountain pink.

"That is what I came all the way from London to see," Tommy remarked, after they had gazed at it.
"I hope you feel repaid," she said, a little tartly.
"You mistake my meaning," he replied.

"I had heard of these wonderful sunsets, and an intense desire came over me to see you looking disdainfully at them.