“Are their lessons over?” inquired Nina Severing, drawing her furs closer.
She had been wearing them loosely over one shoulder, but such is the effect of suggestion.
“Certainly, or I shouldn’t go near them. You know what a disciplinarian I am, Nina, and nothing is ever allowed to interfere with regular hours for my little people. It’s more than half the battle, in my opinion. Lessons, a good long walk twice a day in all weathers, and plenty of healthy play in the garden. Hazel thrives on it, and I mean the other two to do the same.”
She gave her ready, jovial laugh.
“Lazy little cats, both of them! Rosamund would like to sit over a story-book all day, and Frances says that walks make her legs ache. I don’t believe they ever set foot outside the garden in Monmouthshire. Their mother was half a Hungarian, which, I suppose, accounts for it.”
“My sympathies are frightfully cosmopolitan, I’m afraid,” sighed Nina, “but I do think you’re absolutely right about the children, of course. Fresh air and exercise are so important at that age.”
“At any age,” laughed her friend. “I couldn’t get through my work without my daily tramp.”
Nina, with great skill, immediately assumed an appearance irresistibly recalling a fragile hothouse plant.
“As you know,” she murmured, “my poor little art has always had to thrive in spite of my wretched health. I’m always trying to think myself a robust woman, but everyone always laughs at me for so much as suggesting such a thing.”
She imparted a tinge of pathos to her slight laugh.