“Mme. Tussaud,” said Lady Aviolet.
“Mummie says Tussawd.”
“Don’t answer back, Cecil, it’s a bad habit. Ring the bell for the hot water, and we’ll have tea.”
The silver kettle and the hot scones, the cut bread-and-butter and the various cakes, seemed oddly elaborate after Ovington Street.
“What a good tea!” said little Cecil.
Neither Ford nor Sir Thomas was present.
“We have a piece of news for you, Rose,” her mother-in-law presently said, when Cecil had been sent away in Dawson’s charge to the nursery.
“I think I know already.”
“Indeed?”
“I met Lord Charlesbury yesterday, and he told me—about Ford, isn’t it?”