“I hope the cake is not heavy,” said his sister, rising to pour out his tea. “Mrs. Devon can’t make cakes--it is her only weakness; but there are some rather nice pink things over there from the confectioner’s.”
Horace cleared his throat.
“I wish you would take off your things, Etta,” he said with sudden irritation, “or not look as if you were being kept in by force, and meant to go out the moment I had swallowed my tea; it makes me nervous.”
“Nervous, my dear boy? Lestranges are never nervous. What is the matter with you? I was going out calling, and I supposed you would want to go upstairs and tidy after your journey. But, of course, if you are nervous, and have anything on your mind--”
Etta began unbuttoning her gloves. Her brother groaned.
“No, hang it all, Etta; I’d rather wait till after dinner!”
“Just as you like,” said Miss Lestrange. “I hope Miss--er--Walton, isn’t it?--is quite well?”
“Oh, yes, Edith is all right, thanks. You might tell them, Etta, to let the little chap come into my study when he gets in from his walk.”
“Oh, of course, Horace!”
It may have been intention, or it may have been one of those fortunate accidents which happen to well-trained fighters, but Miss Lestrange’s attention was suddenly caught by a crooked picture. She turned back to a portrait of Annette hanging over the mantelpiece.