Uncle Robert was behind his newspaper as usual, and Aunt Evelyn was earnestly perusing a ladies’ paper, from which she occasionally imparted to Lydia—the only person who made any pretence at listening to her—certain small items of information regarding personalities equally unknown to both of them.
This was Mrs. Senthoven’s one relaxation, and afforded her an evident satisfaction.
“Fancy! It says here that, ‘It is rumoured that a certain demoiselle of no inconsiderable charm, and well known to Society, is shortly to exchange her rank as peer’s daughter for one even more exalted.’ I wouldn’t be surprised if that was Lady Rosalind Kelly that was meant. I suppose she’s going to marry some duke. They say she’s lovely, but I wouldn’t care to see a son of mine marry her, after all the stories one’s heard.”
Aunt Evelyn looked fondly at the recumbent Bob.
“I say, we might get the Swaines to come with us to-morrow,” said Olive, “then we could get up a rag of some sort.”
“I say, old girl, chuck me my pipe. The mater won’t mind.”
“Get it yourself,” retorted Olive, utterly without malice, but in the accepted Senthoven method of repudiating a request for any small service.
“Here’s rather a good story about that fellow—you remember, Lydia, we saw his picture in the Sunday paper—Gerald Fitzgerald, who’s acting in some play or other. Listen to this!”
Aunt Evelyn read aloud a reputed mot of the famous comedian that did not err upon the side of originality.
“I wonder if that’s true, now!”