Harry leant his elbow on a great stone vase which stood on a pedestal and held a miniature wilderness of flowers.
"I lunched at Fairholme," he was saying. "The paint's all wet still, of course, and the doors stick a bit, but I liked the family. He's genuine, she's homely, and Janie's a good girl. They were very civil."
"I suppose so."
"Not overwhelmed," he added, as though wishing to correct a wrong impression which yet might reasonably have arisen.
"I didn't mean that. I've met Mr Iver, and he
wasn't at all overwhelmed. Mrs Iver was—out—when I called, and I was—out—when she called." Lady Tristram was visibly, although not ostentatiously, allowing for the prejudices of a moral middle-class.
"Young Bob Broadley was there—you know who I mean? At Mingham Farm, up above the Pool."
"I know—a handsome young man."
"I forgot he was handsome. Of course you know him then! What a pity I'm not handsome, mother!"
"Oh, you've the air, though," she observed contentedly. "Is he after Janie Iver?"