“Mr Elthorne is asleep, madam,” she said.
“Ho!” ejaculated Aunt Anne, turning sharply round and continuing her way. “Ralph always is asleep when I want to see him. I wonder how the lovers have got on,” she added, as she reached the drawing-room door, and stood smiling on the mat before she entered and looked round.
“In the conservatory, I suppose,” she said playfully. “Oh, dear; it seems only yesterday when—”
She went straight to the open French window, and peeped in among the exotics; then went to one end, then to the other, where the door stood wide open leading out on to the terrace and the lawn.
“Now that’s carrying matters too far,” she said to herself. “It is not etiquette. Isabel ought to have known better, and Sir Cheltnam should not have taken her. Ah, well, I suppose I must not be too strict at a time like this.”
She rang the bell for the tea urn, and the butler entered, red hot from an exciting conversation with his fellow-servants, who were in full debate.
“You had better tell the gentlemen tea is ready when you leave the room.”
“I beg pardon, ma’am?” said the butler, as he set down the hissing urn.
“I said tell the gentlemen that tea is ready.”
“The gentlemen, ma’am? They are both out.”