Ford’s hand went up again, and this time the expression on his face was that of one excruciated.
“There can be no need to enter into questions of that sort. Cecil is my father’s only grandchild at present, and we should naturally wish him to be brought up according to the family traditions. If you wish to pay some visits—and nothing could be more natural, after your long spell abroad—you may feel perfectly certain that Cecil will be as well looked after here as he could possibly be anywhere.”
Ford was looking at the tips of his fingers as he spoke and missed the lowering gaze, rather like that of an angry animal, which she turned upon him.
“How d’you mean, if I want to pay visits? I’m not going anywhere without Ces. He’s never been away from me for a day since he was born.”
“I am sure you would be the last person to let the boy go on being dependent upon you to such an extent, my dear Rose, when you realize how very much harder it will make the inevitable separation between you when it does come. Cecil will be going to school.”
She opened her mouth as though about to speak, checked herself, and then said slowly:
“He’s only seven years old.”
“Oh, certainly, there’s time before us.” Ford smiled. “It was only a word of warning. Cecil’s education is entirely in your department for the time being. I shall not consider that my responsibility really begins until he is of school age.”
“No,” said Rose slowly.
“You will find my mother a little bit—prejudiced, shall we say?—along certain lines of her own, but otherwise you will have no difficulty in making your own arrangements regarding Cecil. I take it you are in favour of a good nursery governess?”