“Look here,” he said, in a low mysterious voice, “will you do something for me?”
“What?” said Henry, suspiciously.
“I’m going out for a long walk. Shan’t be back until supper. Give this letter to Katherine, and tell her I want her to read it before I get back.”
“Why don’t you give it to her yourself? She’s up in her room.”
“Because I want you to.”
Henry took the letter, and Philip was gone, sending into the house a little gust of cold wind and rain as he plunged through the door. Henry looked after him, shook his head as though the destinies of the world were on his shoulders, put the letter into his pocket and went into the drawing-room. The Drake family was calling. There were Mrs. Drake, old and sharp and weather-beaten, like a sign post on the top of a hill; her son, Francis Drake, who, unlike his famous namesake, seemed unable to make up his mind about anything, was thin and weedy, with staring eyes, and continually trying to swallow his fist; and little Lettice Drake, aged seven, fifteen years younger than any other in the family; her parents had never entirely got over their surprise at her appearance: she was sharp and bony, like her mother. Mrs. Trenchard, Aunt Aggie and Millie were entertaining; Great-Aunt Sarah was seated in state, in black silk and white cap, and her stern eye was fixed upon Mr. Drake, whose appearance she did not like. This made Mr. Drake very nervous.
Afternoon-tea on Sunday comes at the very moment when the day seems most unbearable—Later, at about six o’clock, Sunday fatigue will happily begin to descend and envelop its victims, but at half-past four one is only able to remember that it is a mistake to have so large a meal in the middle of the day, that Sunday clothes are chill and uncomfortable, and that all the people in whom one has the least interest in life will shortly make their appearance.
There is also the prospect of evening service, followed by cold supper: the earlier hours of the day stretch now behind one at so vast and unwieldy a length that it seems impossible that one will ever reach the end of the day alive. Aunt Aggie felt all this—she also hated the Drakes. She saw that Henry, moody in a corner by himself, regarded her with a cynical eye: her tooth, which had been quiet since luncheon, was throbbing again. She endeavoured to be pleasant to little Lettice, although she hated children, and she knew that children knew it.
“Wonderfully she’s grown!” she said, bending down towards the child, who watched her with cold curiosity. “And what’s your favourite game now, Lettice? Too old for dolls, I expect.”
There was no reply.