“There’s a lovely garden for him at Squires.”
“Oh, yes—and a lady’s maid turned on to trot behind him so as to see that he doesn’t do any damage!” Rose interjected scornfully.
“Why, he seems such a good little boy.”
“So he is.”
“I never heard such nonsense,” exclaimed Miss Lucian, with a warmth equal to Rose’s own.
It needed nothing more to inflame Rose’s ardour, never greatly tempered by discretion.
“The whole thing seems nonsense to me,” she remarked vehemently. “Him being put into a nursery and having his breakfast and supper upstairs and that ridiculous old maid Dawson putting him to bed, and not so much as knowing if his little pyjamas fastened in front or behind—honestly, she didn’t, silly old ass! In Ceylon, I had him with me all the time.”
“And can’t you do that at Squires?”
“Oh, Lord, no. They’re always at me about not spoiling him, and making him manly. It’s quite right, I daresay.”
She threw a sudden odd glance round, as though afraid of being overheard, and then said in a lowered voice: