“It’s a foreign name,” was the indirect, but distrustful, reply of Aunt Beryl. “I didn’t like to ask her what country she belonged to, quite. Is it a French name?”
“Portuguese,” said Grandpapa unexpectedly. “There are Ribeiros all over the Dutch East Indies.”
“She seemed a nice person enough—older than I expected, and dressed very quietly in black, like a widow. She certainly had a moustache, but then some of those very dark foreigners are like that, and I’m sure it’s her misfortune, and not her fault, poor thing—like her stoutness.”
“She talked very, very slowly, and with an accent,” Lydia said. “She never smiled once, either—I never saw such a solemn face, and enormous black eyes. But I think I should like her.”
“But it’s she that’s got to like you,” Grandpapa pointed out. “You’ve got to work at the bonnets under her, haven’t you, Lyddie?”
“Not exactly under her. She doesn’t come to the shop herself, much—someone she calls Madame Elena is in charge there. Madame Ribeiro lives in her own house, in St. John’s Wood. But the shop is hers, and she engages all the helpers herself. She sees them all personally.”
“And is this precious shop in St. John’s Wood, too?”
“Certainly not. It’s in the West End,” said Aunt Beryl with dignity.
“Then I suppose Lyddie would like a little house in Park Lane, so as to be near it?” Grandpapa inquired with an air of simplicity.
“I thought I told you that Lydia was going to Maria Nettleship’s,” said Aunt Beryl stiffly.