“Of course, I know very well what’s upsetting Ford,” pursued Sir Thomas with an air of perspicacity. “He can’t get out himself, and he’s got no son to send.”
“His son would be far too young to go, even if he’d got one,” said Lady Aviolet literally. “Why, he’d be still in the nursery.”
“I daresay, I daresay—but that’s what’s upsettin’ him all the same.”
Lady Aviolet did not deny it.
In the course of the next few days, however, it was Sir Thomas who betrayed vexation of spirit, and Ford who was quietly triumphant.
Cecil wrote another letter to his grandfather, in which he did not mention a commission at all, and earnestly asked for money.
“What’s he want money for? He has a very good allowance, and this is no time for lashin’ out. You can write and tell him so, Ford.”
This time Sir Thomas showed no objection to letting Ford act as his secretary. He also bade his wife write to Rose, in London.
“Ask her if she knows what the young ass is up to, and if she doesn’t, she’d better go and see him. Or Ford. Ford would be the best person. Write to her to-night, Catherine.”
Lady Aviolet obediently did so.