Lady Aviolet paused, as though expecting Rose to say something, but Rose had nothing to say. Neither the word “Marchmont” nor the word “Mallinson” conveyed anything to her beyond the mere sound of the syllables, and she hardly even realised that they could be expected to convey anything more.
“The Marchmonts will be interested in the new bulbs,” said Lady Aviolet.
“Anything for the station?” Sir Thomas inquired. “The carriage must meet the two-thirty. Ford is expecting the person from London who wants to see the house.”
“What person? I hadn’t heard anything about that.”
“Some man who is publishing a book, I believe. He wrote a very civil letter, and asked if he might see the place and take some photographs and Ford sees no objection. Surely he asked you about it?”
“I’d forgotten.”
“So long as he looks after the fellow himself, I don’t mind. And he’ll have to show us what he writes. You can’t trust these liter’y fellows a yard, I’m told.”
“Why, what could he do?” Rose inquired.
“Oh, you never know. Might put in all sorts of impertinent details about the family, if he wasn’t watched. But I daresay he’s all right. Ford’ll look after him.”
“Well, then, the carriage to meet the two-thirty,” said Lady Aviolet. “There’s a box from the Stores, too, to be fetched. And the Mudie box. What about sending in the luggage-cart?”