The warmth and artificial lighting in the big hotel came as a sudden, intense relief.
“Sir Thomas Aviolet?”
“Yes, sir, in a private sitting-room. This way, if you please.”
“Don’t leave me,” Rose whispered to Lucian. “I’m sorry I was so cross at the station.”
Sir Thomas, waiting for them in the ugly, airless room, was not alone. Lady Aviolet sat by the fireless grate, her knitting in her hands.
“Was your train late?” said Sir Thomas, seeming to find an outlet for nervousness in partly-simulated anger.
“How do you do, Rose my dear?” said Lady Aviolet.
She very gently bumped her face against her daughter-in-law’s, in bestowal of her usual perfunctory greeting.
Then she shook Cecil’s hand, without looking at him.
“Ford, my dear boy, how cold you look! Shall I have the fire lit?”