Ford made an unobtrusive appearance and uttered his casual morning greetings with a detached coolness to which Rose, sharply observant, felt that she herself could never attain.
She could not remember feeling utterly at a loss ever before, except perhaps on her first day at school, when she was nine years old. But then she had never before found herself in any atmosphere in the least like that of Squires. The conversation at meals—there was no conversation at any other time—was unlike any that she had heard before.
In Ceylon, Jim had grumbled about the native labour on the plantation, had told stories circulated on the previous night at the Club, and had listened readily enough to any items of gossip, generally scandalous, that his wife might have assimilated from her neighbours.
At Squires, Rose had heard the plans of the coming day discussed, with minor variations, exactly as they had been discussed that morning, every day since her arrival.
At lunch, Sir Thomas sometimes reported indignantly that the keeper had again complained of poachers, and sometimes, also indignantly, that his agent had suggested that more money should be spent on repairs to farms or cottages on the estate.
To these observations Lady Aviolet might return a trite ejaculation, to which no one made any rejoinder.
At tea, the talk was generally of the garden, of gardens belonging to other people, and of Pug’s taste in cakes and saucers full of milk.
Sometimes people called, but even then the subjects of conversation did not vary. If Sir Thomas had read the Times before dinner, as sometimes happened, he would then speak disparagingly of the Government, although in general terms rather than from the standpoint of any specific grievance. Ford sometimes made a reply, but more often he raised his eyebrows and said nothing.
All the evening Lady Aviolet knitted, glancing from time to time at the clock, and at half-past ten she always said to Rose:
“Well, I daresay you’re ready for bed, my dear. I’m sure I am.”