Essie turned away from the picture, and sat down feebly by the window.
The clinking of plates, and Ted’s cheerful voice reached us, and the drawing of a cork.
“Our Mr. Rupert, the present owner, favours the picture,” said the woman proudly in her natural voice, “and when he come of age three years ago last Christmas there was a grand fancy ball and ’e was dressed exackerly to match the picture, with a curled wig and all. And ’e wore the actual sword, and the very gloves, at least ’e ’eld ’em in ’is ’and. They was too stiff to put on. ’E did look a picture. And ’is mother being Spanish ’ad a lace shawl on ’er ’ead, a duchess she was in ’er own right, and she might a been a queen to look at her. I watched the dancing from the gallery, me having been nurse in the family, and a beautiful sight it was.”
Essie’s dark eyes were fixed intently on the garrulous old servant.
“Three years ago last Christmas,” she said sharply. “Are you sure of that?”
“And wouldn’t I be sure that took ’im from the month ma’am, but ’e don’t look so like the picture when ’e ain’t dressed to match, and without the yaller wig,” and she wandered out of the room, evidently more interested in the luncheon preparations than in us.
Ted hurried in. When was he not in a hurry?
“Luncheon, luncheon,” he said. “Don’t wait for me, Essie. Rather too long a drive for my little woman. Give her a glass of port, Beatrice. I have to see Rodwell about the roof. Shan’t be half a mo. He’s got to catch his train. Mr. Kenstone, the Duke, I mean, will be here in ten minutes. If he turns up before I’m back give him a snack. They’ve sent enough for ten.”
We did not go in to luncheon.