Perhaps that had been his charm, too, for Connie.
"It's a lovely day, today!" Mrs. Bolton would say in her caressive, persuasive voice. "I should think you'd enjoy a little run in your chair today, the sun's just lovely."
"Yes? Will you give me that book—there, that yellow one. And I think I'll have those hyacinths taken out."
"Why, they're so beautiful!" She pronounced it with the "y" sound: be-yutiful! "And the scent is simply gorgeous."
"The scent is what I object to," he said. "It's a little funereal."
"Do you think so!" she exclaimed in surprise, just a little offended, but impressed. And she carried the hyacinths out of the room, impressed by his higher fastidiousness.
"Shall I shave you this morning, or would you rather do it yourself?" Always the same soft, caressive, subservient, yet managing voice.
"I don't know. Do you mind waiting a while. I'll ring when I'm ready."
"Very good, Sir Clifford!" she replied, so soft and submissive, withdrawing quietly. But every rebuff stored up new energy of will in her.
When he rang, after a time, she would appear at once. And then he would say: