“My dear mother’s interests are not solely confined to her worsted work, I believe,” Ford answered blandly. “She is, for instance, a very keen gardener.”
“As I happen to have lived in North London till I was seventeen, and after that in Ceylon, with a couple of trips to Australia, I’m not awfully likely to be of use in an English garden,” said Rose with angry sarcasm.
“Perhaps not. May I ask in what direction your tastes happen to lie?”
“I haven’t had much chance of finding out, have I? You can guess what life was like with poor old Jim. Every time he got on the drink, Ces and I went in fear of our lives, and——”
“Please!” Ford held up one hand.
She stared at him, abashed and yet still angry.
“I won’t say it, if you don’t want me to. I had to put up with it, though. Look here, I want to talk to you about what we’re going to do.”
“Certainly.”
He pushed forward one of the armchairs, but she remained on her feet. Although Ford Aviolet was tall, their eyes met on a level, and Rose’s square shoulders were broader than his sloping ones.
“It was very kind to pay our passage home, and all that, and of course it was more than time Ces came to England. Jim was always talking about sending him, only we hadn’t the money—but what happens next?”