“I think it was Thomas, aunt, who makes so much fuss over Pepine,” said Fin, maliciously.
“I’m quite sure that Thomas is too respectable and well-conducted a servant to say such a thing,” said Aunt Matty. “It was my doing that your papa engaged him; for he came with a letter of introduction from the Reverend Caius Carney, who spoke very highly indeed of his honesty and pious ways.”
“Oh, aunty,” cried Fin, “and he swears like a trooper!”
Aunt Matilda went into a semi-cataleptic state, so rigid did she grow; and her hand, with which she was taking a little more dog by friction, closed so sharply on the scruff of the little terrier’s neck, that it yelped aloud.
“You mustn’t say so, my dear, if he does,” said Lady Rea, rather sadly.
And to turn the conversation, Trevor asked her if she liked flowers.
“Oh yes, Mr Trevor,” she exclaimed, beaming once more. “And you’ve got some lovely gladioluses—li—oli,” she added, correcting herself, and glancing from one to the other like a tutored child, “in your grounds, of a colour we can’t get. May I beg a few?”
“The gardener shall send in as many as you wish for, Lady Rea—anything in my place is at your service.”
Poor Tiny! His eager, earnest words began to wake up such a curious little tremor in her breast. It was all so new—so strange. Now she told herself she was foolish, childish, and that she was giving way to silly, romantic fancies; only Fin was evidently thinking something too, and gave her all sorts of malicious looks. As for Aunt Matty, she sat now with her eyes closed, sucking a mental lozenge about patience; and Fin’s championship was in abeyance for the rest of the visit—the conversation being principally between Lady Rea and their visitor.
“It’s very kind of you to say so, I’m sure,” said Lady Rea. “We saw them, you know, when we went over your place, once or twice, for Mrs Lloyd was good enough to say we might. And a very beautiful place it is.”