Bob, who was on the outside, did not look as though he had altered very much. He was still short and stocky, with hair combed straight back and plastered close to his head.
Olive, much taller than her brother, was dressed in thick tweed, with a shirt and tie, and the only concession to her invalidhood that Lydia could see, was a large and rather mangy-looking yellow fur incongruously draped across her shoulders.
Mrs. Senthoven’s smaller, slighter figure was completely hidden from view by her offspring.
As they all met outside the church door, Lydia, in thought, was instantly carried back to Wimbledon again, and her sixteenth year.
“Hullo, ole gurl!” from Olive.
“Same to you and many of ’em,” briefly from Bob, in reply to anticipated Christmas greetings.
“We’ll all walk back to the Terrace together, shall we?” suggested Aunt Beryl, on whose mind Lydia knew that elaborate preparations for dinner were weighing. “Grandpapa will want to wish you all a Merry Christmas, I’m sure.”
Aunt Evelyn, not without reason, looked nervous, nor did Grandpapa’s greeting serve to reassure her.
“Why does little Shamrock bark at you so, my dear?” he inquired of Olive, with a pointed look at her short skirts. “I’m afraid he doesn’t like those great boots of yours.”
It was quite evident that Grandpapa’s opinion of the Senthoven family had undergone no modification.