“Who ever heard of baked angels, Aunt Catherine!” he exclaimed, after another explosion.
“My dear, it is only a name,” she returned, mildly. “Will you have another, Harry? And, Nan, you must pass your cousin the Madeira.”
They were all seated round the table in the small parlor. It was felt to be a triumph when Sir Harry contrived to seat himself without grazing himself seriously against the chiffonnier or knocking over a piece of the blue-and-gold china.
“What a cosey little cabin of a place!” he said with critical approval; “but it is rather small to hold you all,—eh, Aunt Catherine?”
“Yes: it is small after Glen Cottage,” she sighed. “We had such a pretty drawing-room there.”
“And such a lovely garden!” added Dulce.
“Oh, this crib in not fit for you? We will alter all that,” he returned, complacently. “I am the head of the family now, and I must take my uncle’s place. I am awfully rich, Aunt Catherine; so you have only got to tell me what you and the girls want, you know.” And then he rubbed his hands as though he were pleased about something.
But no one took any notice of this speech, hardly knowing how to treat it.
When luncheon—which was, indeed, the family dinner—was over, the girls carried him off to the work-room, and showed him specimens of their skill.