It was not the first time that Mrs. Aviolet had thus heartily apostrophized her absent brother-in-law, and it did not embarrass her to be left without a reply. Her invective, entirely without malice as it was, was always uttered in a tone that assumed complete acquiescence on the part of her hearer.
Henrietta Lucian showed no signs of anything else but acquiescence.
“Have you made up your mind?”
“I suppose I have, really. I don’t know that I shall let on to them, right away. They’re quite aggravating enough without me giving them the chance of saying ‘I told you so.’ But Ces isn’t getting any better with me, and that seems to dish the idea of my taking him away somewhere, and he’s wild to go to school—and I do believe Mrs. Lambert really would do him good.”
She paused for a moment, then spoke with an effort:
“I say, I don’t believe I ought to have said that about them saying ‘I told you so.’ God knows they’re trying enough, but I don’t believe they would mock at me for changing. The old people really do want what they think is best for Cecil, and that’s all they think of. Besides, they never have said ‘I told you so’—although goodness knows I’ve given them every opportunity, the number of times I’ve had to eat humble pie.”
“I see. No, I’m sure they wouldn’t say anything like ‘I told you so.’ For one thing,” Miss Lucian observed drily, “they might think it rather bad form.”
They both laughed.
The Aviolets did not say “I told you so” when Rose at last, in tones truculent rather than submissive, informed them that she approved of Hurst as a preparatory school for Cecil. They calmly and agreeably accepted the announcement as a matter of course.
“And what about yourself, my dear? Have you any plans?” amiably inquired Lady Aviolet. “Can you put up with the dullness of the country, while Cecil is away?”