"Well! You are a Crichton at any rate," she said at last. Having given vent to this ambiguous remark, she waved her glasses, as if to sweep away the rest of the company, and continued: "I wish to speak to you alone."
Her voice was deep and harsh and she made no effort to lower it.
"So this was Anita Wilmersley's grandmother. What an old tartar!" thought Cyril.
"It is almost time for the funeral to start," he said aloud and he tried to convey by his manner that he, at any rate, had no intention of allowing her to ride rough-shod over him.
"I know," she snapped, "so hurry, please. These gentlemen will excuse us."
"Certainly." "Of course." "We will wait in the hall." Cyril heard them murmur and, such was the force of the old lady's personality, that youths and grey beards jostled each other in their anxiety to get out of the room as quickly as possible.
"Get me a chair," commanded Lady Upton. "No, not that one. I want to sit down, not lie down."
With her stick she indicated a high, straight-backed chair, which had been relegated to a corner.
Having seated herself, she took a pair of spectacles out of her reticule and proceeded to wipe them in a most leisurely manner.
Cyril fidgeted impatiently.