“I am so sorry you troubled about supper,” said Mildred, not at all curious about the latest fashion in champagne. “I could not take anything, unless it were a cup of tea.”
“But you must have dined early, or hurriedly, at any rate. I hate that kind of dinner—everything huddled over—and the carriage announced before the pièce de résistance. And so you’re going to your aunt. Is she ill? Has she sent for you at a moment’s notice? You will come into all her money, no doubt; and I am told she is immensely rich.”
“I have never thought about her money.”
“I suppose not, you lucky creature. It will be sending coals to Newcastle in your case. Your father left you so rich. I am told Miss Fausset gives no end of money to her church people. She has put in two painted windows at St. Edmund’s: a magnificent rose window over the porch, and a window in the south transept by Burne Jones—a delicious design—St. Cecilia sitting at an organ, with a cloud of cherubs. By the bye, talking of St. Cecilia, how did you like my friend Castellani? He wrote me a dear little note of gratitude for my introduction, so I am sure you were very good to him.”
“I could not dishonour any introduction of yours; besides, Mr. Castellani’s grandfather and my father had been friends. That was a link. He was very obliging in helping us with an amateur concert.”
“How do you like him? But here we are at home. You shall tell me more while we are at supper.”
Mildred had to sit down to the oysters and grouse, whether she would or not. The dining-room was charming in the day-time, with its view of the Park. At night it might have been a room excavated from Vesuvian lava, so strictly classic were its terra-cotta draperies, its butter-boat lamps, and curule chairs.
“How sad to see you unable to eat anything!” protested Mrs. Tomkison, snapping up the natives with gusto; for it may be observed that the people who wait up for travellers, or for friends coming home from the play, are always hungrier than those who so return. “You shall have your tea directly.”
Mildred had eaten nothing since her apology for a breakfast. She was faint with fasting, but had no appetite, and the odour of grouse, fried bread-crumbs, and gravy sickened her. She withdrew to a chair by the fire, and had a dainty little tea-table placed at her side, while Mrs. Tomkison demolished one of the birds, talking all the time.
“Isn’t he a gifted creature?” she asked, helping herself to the second half of the bird.