“Too busy, aunt,” I told her.
She bit her bun extensively, and gesticulated with the remnant to indicate that she had more to say.
“How are you going to make your fortune?” she said so soon as she could speak again. “You haven’t told us that.”
“’Lectricity,” said my uncle, taking breath after a deep draught of tea.
“If I make it at all,” I said. “For my part I think shall be satisfied with something less than a fortune.”
“We’re going to make ours—suddenly,” she said.
“So he old says.” She jerked her head at my uncle.
“He won’t tell me when—so I can’t get anything ready. But it’s coming. Going to ride in our carriage and have a garden. Garden—like a bishop’s.”
She finished her bun and twiddled crumbs from her fingers. “I shall be glad of the garden,” she said. “It’s going to be a real big one with rosaries and things. Fountains in it. Pampas grass. Hothouses.”
“You’ll get it all right,” said my uncle, who had reddened a little.