“What do you say, Mother?” said Vera, as if resuming a conversation. “Shall it be Hampton Court or Richmond on Sunday?”
“I say, as I said before,” replied Beatrice: “I cannot afford to go out.”
“But you must begin, my dear, and Sunday shall see the beginning. Dîtes donc!”
“There are other things to think of,” said Beatrice.
“Now, maman, nous avons changé tout cela! We are going out—a jolly little razzle!” Vera, who was rather handsome, lifted up her face and smiled at her mother gaily.
“I am afraid there will be no razzle”—Beatrice accented the word, smiling slightly—“for me. You are slangy, Vera.”
“Un doux argot, ma mère. You look tired.”
Beatrice glanced at the clock.
“I will go to bed when I have cleared the table,” she said.
Siegmund winced. He was still sitting with his head bent down, looking in the grate. Vera went on to say something more. Presently Frank looked up at the table, and remarked in his grating voice: