Ricky's good-natured charm had worked, aided by the fact that he seized each by one arm. So they stood there, with their backs to the high glimmering-coloured books in the tall shelves, facing the group by the white marble mantelpiece across the room.
Grandmother Brayle had been at her haughtiest—"1 think I have met Captain Drake—" during the few sketchy introductions. Today she wore heavy horsy tweeds, her grey-white hair without a hat. Without a flicker towards H.M., she looked steadily across and up at her own reflection in a mirror over the fireplace, and (incidentally) over the other group's heads as she faced them. It was H.M. who broke the thick silence.
" 'Lo, Sophie," he volunteered with surprising meekness.
"Good evening, Henry."
"Nice weather we're bavin', ain't it?"
"That," murmured Lady Brayle, "is not altogether unexpected in July."
The length of the broad desk, with its inkpot and blue quill pen, separated them as though a leprous touch might be infected.
"Y’know, Sophie, we've been on speaking-terms for a good many years."
"Are you trying to appeal to my sentimentality, Henry? How amusing!"
"I say, though. Do you remember the night I took you to see Lewis Waller play Beaucaire at the old Imperial Theatre?"