“Oh, yes, quite old enough, just three months to-day; indeed one has already gone—Cæsarion—to the clergyman who was staying here when they were tiny, and bespoke him at once. It was he who named them. This is the other—er—male, ‘Dear Brutus.’ Why ‘Dear’ I really don’t know, though naturally he is very dear to me. And his sister is Semiramis, because she is so melligerent. The Rev. Smithson—such a learned man, my dear Mrs. Carling—said she would certainly grow up into a warrior queen. They are beautiful names, I consider—pathological, of course.”
“Historical,” Grace suggested, and instantly repented. For Miss Culpepper drew herself up and spoke, gently indeed, but in a tone that conveyed a subtle reproof.
“I consider ‘pathological’ the more correct. It is as well to be accurate even in the smallest matters, and I believe it is very doubtful if the originals of the names ever really lived.”
“She’s priceless!” Grace declared, when she repeated this to Roger, as she accompanied him back to the car, with a perfect imitation of the old lady’s manner. “And the dearest, kindest old soul in the world. Aren’t you glad we came? She’s going to give me all sorts of household tips, as she did when I was here with daddy. She’s a wonderful cook. So hurry back when you’ve garaged the car, and we shall have lunch ready.”
“Good!” said Roger heartily. “I’m as hungry as a hunter. So long, darling.”
When he returned he found Grace, enveloped in one of Miss Culpepper’s big cooking aprons, and with Dear Brutus perched on her shoulder, busily putting the finishing touches to the table, while a delicious fragrance of omelette was wafted from the kitchen.
A very dainty meal the resourceful old lady managed to serve at such short notice, and how they enjoyed it!
For the time the shadow had passed from them. London and the Rawsons, all the tragedy and trouble, had receded into the far distance, and life seemed very fair, very joyous. They were not callous—far from it; they were only a pair of lovers, rejoicing in each other, in the sunshine, in “the delight of simple things, and mirth that hath no bitter stings!”
It was a wonderful week-end, halcyon days of sheer, unalloyed happiness; an abiding memory to dwell on in the time to come, when the world was dark indeed, and even hope seemed dead.
It was amazing how swiftly the hours sped. There was a shopping expedition down the village in the afternoon to order supplies, when the crowning glory of the purchases was a noble dish of big pink prawns, caught that very morning, and still steaming hot from the pot. They carried them back and had them for tea—a real square-meal tea, and ate them all, except such as were demolished by Cleopatra, Semiramis, and Dear Brutus, who attended the feast and exhibited an appreciative appetite for fresh prawns nicely peeled and proffered.