“Is that his school?”
“Preparatory school—yes. I’ve got his name down for Eton and Winchester, at present.”
Rose wondered why any one’s name should be down for two different places, but the subject was not one that she wanted to pursue.
“Cecil’s not quite eight, yet, and he’s backward too, from being brought up in Ceylon.”
“You’ve not been back from the East so very long, have you?”
“It seems ages.”
Charlesbury was looking at her with such evident interest and admiration that Rose rapidly felt at her ease with him, and began to talk in the manner—and also at the pitch—natural to her.
“Heaps of people at home seem to think that Ceylon is the same as India, but it isn’t, in the least,” she told him. “Ceylon is an island that has nothing to do with India, really. It’s not half a bad place, especially up in the hills. We were in a place called Newara Eliya most of the time, and it was as cool as anything. Colombo is sweltering, of course, and as damp as can be. It’s on the sea, you know.”
“Rose,” said Ford’s very quiet and distinct voice at her elbow, “as Lord Charlesbury happens to be a distinguished member of the Geographical Society and the author of several books about the East may I suggest that you are, in the vulgar phrase, importing coals to Newcastle?”
Rose flushed scarlet, rather from anger than from confusion, but before she could speak Charlesbury had interposed quickly and courteously: