They talked about politics, and Rose was silent, from ignorance of the subject and from a complete lack of interest in it. They tried to talk about Squires, and Uncle Alfred became Scriptural, and alluded to the pomps and vanities of this world, whereat Lord Charlesbury became strangely unresponsive.
It was a relief to Mrs. Aviolet when a prolonged clatter of china and a timid knock outside the door heralded the entrance of the little maid Gladys.
“Tea,” said Rose, and was shocked at the blatancy of her own extreme relief at the interruption.
She poured out the tea, glad of an occupation, and with her eyes dared Uncle Alfred to comment upon the unusual elegance of the white fringed tea-cloth thrown over the tray, the best cups and saucers, and a display of Osborne biscuits in place of the “Squashed-flies.”
“Tea is less harmful to the nerves than coffee,” said Uncle Alfred sententiously, “but women are far too much addicted to both.”
“You’re fond of a cup of tea yourself, Uncle. We always have it after supper,” said Rose to Lord Charlesbury.
“It used to be usual everywhere. I can’t remember those days myself, but I can quite well remember my grandfather telling about the times when dinner was at five or six o’clock, and tea was brought into the drawing-room afterwards.”
“Can you?” said Rose, inwardly furious at her own inanity.
“Rose, my dear, call Felix Menebees. A cup of tea will do him good,” said Uncle Alfred blandly.
His niece turned startled eyes upon him. The suggestion was not quite unprecedented, but it was very nearly so, and she had certainly never contemplated its being made on the evening of Lord Charlesbury’s visit.