“The carriage is at the door, m’Lady.”
“Oh, dear, where’s Ford?” cried Diana. “You must say good-bye to Uncle Ford, Cecil.”
She pushed back her chair from the table, and Lady Aviolet rose too, replacing the handkerchief somewhere in the rustling folds of her dress.
“Good-byes are always trying,” she said. Her choked voice, pathetic in its striving after a dignified composure, gave utterance to the excusatory cliché almost automatically.
She moved into the hall.
“Plenty of time, but one must allow for the hill.”
Lady Aviolet had always, from the days of her first carriage and pair, allowed for the hill.
It was part of the Squires tradition.
“I must find Ford,” said Diana. She hurried upstairs.
Sir Thomas put out his hand to his grandson. “Good-bye, my boy. Good luck to you. I—I wish I was going with you.”