"Too lovely," said the Hon. Mrs. Vavasour.
The Duchess looked down upon her son. "Isn't he old?" she said. "Thousands of years. You'd think he was laughing at the lot of us."
Mrs. Tunster shook her head. "Now don't you go imagining things, Jane, my dear. I used to be just like that, and your father would say, 'Now, Alice.'"
Her Grace raised her head. Her eyes were a little tired. She looked from her son to the clouds, and then back again to her son. She was remembering her own early days, the rich glowing colour of her own American country, the freedom, the space, the honesty.
"I guess you're tired, dear," said her mother. "With the party to-night and all. Why don't you go and rest a bit?"
"His eyes are old! He does despise us all."
Lady Emily, who believed in personal comfort and as little thinking as possible, put her arm through her friend's.
"Come along and give us some tea. He's a dear. Good-bye, you little darling. He is a pet. There, did you see him smiling? You darling. Tea I must have, Jane, dear—at once."
"You go on. I'm coming. Ring for it. Tell Hunter. I'll be with you in two minutes, mother."
Mrs. Tunster left her rattle in the nurse's hands. Then, with the two others, departed. Outside the nursery door she said in an American whisper:—"Jane isn't quite right yet. Went about a bit too soon. She's headstrong. She always has been. Doesn't do for her to think too much."