“Nearly off now, I think.”
“Oh, yes, there’s the whistle.”
“Well, I suppose Aunt Beryl will expect us to send our love, or some rot of that kind.”
“All right. I think we really are starting this time.”
We were not, however, and Lydia looked dumbly at her waiting cousins and wondered why, since they had nothing more to say, and were obviously quite as ill at ease as she was herself, they did not go.
“I wish you wouldn’t wait. We shall be off in a minute now.”
“Oh, it’s all right.”
Beatrice shifted her weight on to the other leg, and Bob pulled out a packet of Woodbine cigarettes and lit one of them.
“I hope Grandpapa will be in good form,” said Bob desperately.
“I’ll tell him you asked.”