“Nothing.” She might have known it was useless to make signs.
“But you frowned.”
“Well, don’t you ever get a twinge?” she prevaricated.
“Toothache, dear?” Mrs. Batty clucked her distress. “I’ll get some laudanum. You just rub it on the gum—” She rose. “I have some in my medicine cupboard. I’ll go and get it.” She went out, and across her broad back she seemed to carry the legend, “This is the consummation of tact.”
Charles stood up and planted himself on the hearthrug and Henrietta wished Mrs. Batty had not gone. “I’m sorry you’ve got toothache,” he said.
“I haven’t. I didn’t say I had. My teeth are perfect.” With a vicious opening of her mouth, she let him see them.
“Then why did you frown?”
“I had to do something to stop your glaring at me.”
“Was I glaring? I didn’t know. I suppose I can’t help looking at you.”
Henrietta appreciated this remark. “I don’t mind so much when we are alone.” From anybody else she would have expected a reminder that she had once allowed more than that, but she was safe with Charles and half annoyed by her safety. Her instinct was to run and dodge, but it was a poor game to play at hide-and-seek with this roughly executed statue of a young man. “Your mother must have noticed,” she explained.