Violet wheeled to Lady Hester.
“And where did you go, Aunt Hester?” she said. “Did you find any coolness? It’s the hottest day we’ve had this year.”
“Yes, my dear, it’s like an oven,” said Lady Hester. “I hate the summer. It broils my bones, and then there’s a thunder-storm, which scares me stiff.”
“Yes, a glass of sherry,” said Ronald. He took up the menu-card and held it up to his monocled eye.
A short silence fell. Violet tried again.
“And when are you going off to Aix, father?” she said. “I hear it’s tremendously full this year.”
“Next week,” said Ronald.
Violet let her eyes sweep round the pictured walls. Just opposite her was the picture of Colin, painted by the most famous artist of the day. He more than any of the other portraits seemed to have drawn close to the dinner-table. He had stepped boldly forth, in another moment he would be standing at old Lady Yardley’s elbow....
Lady Hester made an effort. The midges had bitten her during her walk, and she felt what she would have called ‘scratchy.’
“Well, I could never see the sense of filling yourself up with stinking waters,” she said, “and being pounded as if you were a heap of clothes at the wash.”