“That’s just what I meant,” said Mr. Bradfield, looking up at the ceiling. “And not knowing me very well, she’s not very effusive to me.”
Chris, who had seated herself on the music-stool, drew herself up primly. She could not allow her mother to be laughed at.
“I think it’s better for people to improve upon acquaintance, instead of making themselves so very sweet and charming at first, that they can’t even keep it up.”
Mr. Bradfield raised his eyebrows.
“Have I been so sweet and charming, then, that you’re afraid that I can’t keep it up?”
“No, indeed you haven’t,” replied Chris promptly, with an irrepressible little laugh.
“That’s all right. What were you doing in here?” he went on, looking at the gloves she was drawing on her hands, and at the duster and dust-bellows she had picked up again.
“I was dusting the ornaments.”
“What on earth did you want to do that for? Isn’t there a houseful of servants to do all that sort of thing?”
“My mother says the care of old china is a lady’s work, not a servant’s. She would think it wicked to leave such a duty to the maids.”