Now that she, who was, though not in the same sense of the word as himself, an outsider, had made her small, inefficient contribution of words, Lucian felt that he, also, might speak. He, like Rose, chose to address Ford Aviolet, as the only possible interpreter between Rose’s vehemence and the unimaginative, unruffled obtuseness of the old people.
“As I understand it, Mrs. Aviolet’s contention is that her boy, individually, is unsuited for the system of education that the average English boy profits by. Is there no possible alternative?”
His glance involuntarily shifted, almost pleadingly, to Lady Aviolet.
“Do you think little Cecil delicate?” she said in a surprised way. “Some boys are too delicate for school-life, but it always seems such a pity.”
The doctor was silent.
“Pray let us know, Lucian, if the boy looks to you physically unfit?” said Ford. The irony in his tone was most delicate.
The doctor understood perfectly that his interference was being punished. He knew, and Ford Aviolet knew that he knew, that Cecil was a strong and a healthy child.
“Physically, he seems perfectly sound as far as I can tell.”
Rose Aviolet snatched at the cue he had given her.
“His little body’s all right. It’s his mind, or his soul—whatever you like to call it.”