"It's a grim-looking pile," said Aunt Brillianna, sniffing the odour of musty armour in the subdued hall. "You look as if you had been living among ghosts, child."
"It's quite natural that I should not look very well just now," said Ferlie.
And Aunt B. scolded herself for not having foreseen that it would be so. Family Name to carry on and all the rest of it.
But where was this Clifford? A flattering portrait of him—life-size, in oils—blocked one end of the dining-room. She studied it for a long time; made a few non-committal noises; reserved her opinion until she had scrutinized his Father and Grandfather in the long Gallery above. And when she had made up her mind she still reserved her opinion for the benefit of her own reflection in the bedroom mirror.
"Presentably aristocratic. On the downward grade. Will Ferlie act as a strong enough brake, even with a child in her arms? Lord! What a mouth! A few more years shall roll and then if degeneracy does not set in I'll—anyway, I'll leave Ferlie all my emeralds," resolved the old lady.
She would hardly have been reassured could she have seen the original of the portrait at that instant in Ruth Levine's flat.
"And Peter?" inquired Aunt B.
"Peter, when he is not classifying the internal machinery of some antiquated corpse, is examining Roman Catholicism."
"Whatever for?" asked Aunt B. interested.
"For the fun of listening to Mother arguing against it, I think," said Ferlie, unenthusiastically. "I told Mother that, if her views were really so strong, she had better tell him that she had no objection to his conversion."