“I hope dear little Ivor is not vexing his father as much as he did while he was a baby,” Susie began quietly over her knitting.
“He doesn’t get into many rows,” said Teresa. “It would be almost better if he did.”
“How do you mean, dear?”
“I mean that Evan says so little, it is rather frightening sometimes. He just looks and you don’t know what he is thinking.”
“Evangeline doesn’t worry, I suppose?”
“Yes, I think she does. She is much thinner than she used to be.”
“I daresay that is the damp of Drage,” Susie remarked. “It is a very relaxing place, I have heard.” Teresa laughed, not very merrily.
“Mother, darling,” she asked, looking at Susie with kindly curiosity, “if Father bit you do you think you would say it was owing to the frost? I believe you would.”
“What an absurd thing to say, dear. I don’t talk so much about the weather, do I? It is a subject I have always detested; it is so commonplace. But if you are laughing because I said that Drage is damp that is ridiculous. Everyone knows it is and there is nothing so depressing as a place that is all on clay.” She left the room presently and Cyril put down his book.
“How old are you, Dicky?” he asked.