Rose and Cecil departed joyfully.
“Mummie, when are we going back to Ceylon?”
“I don’t suppose we shall go back at all, darling. I told you we were coming to live in England.”
“But I don’t think I like it much,” said Cecil, opening his brown eyes with a piteous look.
“That fine maid Dawson is kind to you all right, isn’t she?” his mother asked sharply.
The corners of Cecil’s mouth turned down. “She says I tell stories.”
“Well, so you do sometimes, as you very well know. Not that you aren’t going to break yourself of it, because of course you are. Aren’t you, my precious?”
Rose looked at him rather anxiously, and squeezed his little hand tightly in hers.
“Yes, Mummie,” said Cecil confidingly.
He leant against her, playing with her rings. He was an affectionate little boy.