“Will you?” Miss Haddon breathed across the urn and the teapot.
“Well, we might try,” Claude answered doubtfully.
He was remarking to himself:—
“Poor, dear Jimmy! He certainly doesn't understand his aunt!”
She was murmuring in her mind: “I have always heard they have no sense of humour!”
III
“Mr Melville, Mr Melville,” cried Miss Haddon's voice towards evening on the following day, “the absinthe has arrived!”
Claude came out languidly into the hall.
“Has it?” he said dreamily.