Lady Crowborough did not quite say "Charles, dear," but she easily might have if she had known his name.
"Joyce, introduce him to me," she said.
Joyce looked at Charles, raising her eyebrows, and quite taking him into the confidence of her smile and her difficulty.
"It's the——" she nearly said "boy," but corrected herself—"it's the gentleman who is copying the Reynolds, granny," she said. Then to Charles, "May I introduce you to Lady Crowborough."
Lady Crowborough held out her little smooth thin hand.
"Charmed to see you," she said. "Of course, I knew what my silly granddaughter has told me. Such a to-do as we've had settling where you were to paint, and where to stow all Joyce's bits of things, and what not."
Charles had excellent manners, full of deference, and void of embarrassment.
"And my name's Lathom," he said, as he shook hands.
"Well, Mr. Lathom, and so you've come out for a breath of air," continued the vivacious old lady. "Get yourself a chair from the tent there, and sit down and talk to us. Only go quietly, else you'll wake up my son, who's having a nap there, and that'll cause him indigestion or perspiration or a sinking, or I don't know what. Perhaps Joyce had better get it for you: she won't give him a turn, if he happens to wake."
"Oh, but I couldn't possibly——" began Charles.