‘It’s going to be my trousseau, not Aunt Ellen’s,’ said Connie with decision. ‘Let me see. It’s now the 18th of December. Didn’t we say the 12th of January?’ She looked lightly at Falloden.
‘Somewhere near it,’ said Falloden, his smile at last answering hers.
‘We shall want a fortnight, I suppose, to get used to each other,’ said Connie coolly. ‘Then’—she laid a hand on Mrs. Mulholland’s knee—‘you bring him to Marseilles to meet us?’
‘Certainly—at your orders.’
Connie looked at Otto.
‘Dear Otto?’ The soft tone pleaded. He started painfully.
‘You’re awfully good to me. But how can I come to be a burden on you?’
‘But I shall go too,’ said Mrs. Mulholland, firmly.
Connie exclaimed in triumph:
‘We four—to front the desert!—just about the time that he’—she nodded towards Sorell—‘is showing Nora and Uncle Ewen Rome. You mayn’t know it’—she addressed Sorell—‘but on Monday, January 24—I think I’ve got the date right—you and they go on a picnic to Hadrian’s Villa. The weather’s arranged for—and the carriage is ordered.’