“I do like it in a way,” Rose admitted grudgingly. “It feels so safe, after the scrambling way that poor Jim and I lived. I like to see Ces having roast chicken, and rice puddings, and all that good milk to drink—as much as ever he wants it. And, of course, I like the comforts and luxuries for myself. Why, I’d never even seen a room like the room I’ve got there—not even at big hotels. But I think the life’s awful, all the same—and the people.”
“Don’t they ever have any one to stay?”
“Not with me and them being in such deep mourning. I think later on they will—Ford said something about it. A man came the other day to take some photographs of the house for a book he’s writing, and I talked to him, but I could see they didn’t like it. Snobs, I call them.”
Rose’s candour was checked only by the doctor’s entrance into the room with Cecil.
“Can we have some tea, Henrietta?”
They had tea in the dining-room, and afterwards Miss Lucian earned Rose’s warm, effusively expressed gratitude for her kindly display of treasures and curiosities on Cecil’s behalf.
The little boy, intelligent and enthusiastic, was delighted with everything, and especially with a little snuff-box of carved cornelian that played a tiny tinkling tune when the lid was opened.
“That belonged to my great-grandfather, Cecil.”
“I do like it,” said Cecil longingly.
His mother interposed hastily, circumventing his evident intention of suggesting that the ownership of the red cornelian box should be transferred.