“Aunt Christine will be here directly,” he said, greeting the visitor with great friendliness. “She was reading to me and forgot the time. Did you ever hear her read?”
“No,” said Ralph, “what book was it?”
“Oh, only about Roslin, but it doesn’t matter what she reads, she makes everything beautiful—it’s the way she says the words. Mother used to read to me in Ceylon, but I never cared for it—it sounded so droney.”
“Do you come from Ceylon?”
“Yes, I came last year,” said the small invalid. “I live now with Aunt Christine, she’s mother’s sister, and I like her next best to mother in all the world. But Sir Roderick’s a beast. You mustn’t say I said so, but I hate him because he always says horrid, cutting things to Auntie. He’s to meet us here, when Auntie’s engagement is over, and we are to go to the Highlands to stay at a big country house belonging to his cousin.”
It was impossible to check the confidences of this small child, who, with his light brown hair, eager blue eyes and sunburnt face, was by no means the typical invalid of romance, but just a restless, high-spirited boy, brimming over with life and merriment. Perhaps it was as well that at that moment his aunt came into the room.
“So sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Denmead,” she said, greeting him in her charming way. “I was always a sadly unpunctual mortal, but Charlie has no doubt been entertaining you. Is the carriage at the door? Then we will ring for one of the waiters, Charlie, to take you down.”
“He carries so badly,” said the small invalid, querulously. “I wish Dugald were here.”
“Well, he will come with Sir Roderick on Saturday,” said the aunt. “What does the waiter do?”
“I don’t know, but he hurts,” said Charlie, wriggling in his big chair.