For some hours the unpacking continued vigorously, only interrupted by an excursion for lunch to the hotel, since Julian had as yet purchased no plates and received no commons.
On their return they found an old lady in the room—
“A charred and wrinkled piece of womanhood;”
who, in a voice like the grating of a blunt saw, informed Julian that she was to be his bedmaker, and asked him whether he intended “to tea” in his rooms that evening. (The verb “to tea” is the property of bedmakers, and, with beautiful elasticity, it even admits of a perfect tense—as “have you tea’d?”)
“By all means,” said Julian; “lay the table for four this evening at eight o’clock, and get me some bread and butter. You’ll stay, Hugh, won’t you?”
“I should like to, very much. But won’t it be your last evening with your mother and Miss Home?”
“Yes; but never mind that.”
Lillyston shook his head, and bidding the ladies a warm good-bye, left them to enjoy with Julian his first quiet evening in Saint Werner’s, Camford.
“I must hang my pictures before you go, Violet. I shall want your advice.”
“Well, let me see,” said Violet. “The water-colour likenesses of Cyril and Frankie ought to go here, one on each side of Mr Vere; at least, I suppose, you mean to put Mr Vere in the place of honour?”