“Oh! Are ye?” The old man was obviously ironic.
“Yes I am,” Sophia insisted sharply. “I’m not going to hear a word said against Cyril.”
She proceeded to an enthusiastic laudation of Cyril which rather overwhelmed his mother. Constance was pleased; she was delighted. And yet somewhere in her mind was an uncomfortable feeling that Cyril, having taken a fancy to his brilliant aunt, had tried to charm her as he seldom or never tried to charm his mother. Cyril and Sophia had dazzled and conquered each other; they were of the same type; whereas she, Constance, being but a plain person, could not glitter.
She rang the bell and gave instructions to Amy about food—fruit cakes, coffee and hot milk, on a tray; and Sophia also spoke to Amy murmuring a request as to Fossette.
“Yes, Mrs. Scales,” said Amy, with eager deference.
Mrs. Critchlow smiled vaguely from a low chair near the curtained window. Then Constance lit another burner of the chandelier. In doing so, she gave a little sigh; it was a sigh of relief. Mr. Critchlow had behaved himself. Now that he and Sophia had met, the worst was over. Had Constance known beforehand that he would pay a call, she would have been agonized by apprehensions, but now that he had actually come she was glad he had come.
When he had silently sipped some hot milk, he drew a thick bunch of papers, white and blue, from his bulging breast-pocket.
“Now, Maria Critchlow,” he called, edging round his chair slightly. “Ye’d best go back home.”
Maria Critchlow was biting at a bit of walnut cake, while in her right hand, all seamed with black lines, she held a cup of coffee.
“But, Mr. Critchlow——!” Constance protested.