“She is too kind for words, but”—Cynthia looked at her husband deprecatingly—“dear Aunt Jane can be rather boring.”
The General laughed tolerantly.
“Ah, no companion for you. She belongs to another generation.” His bushy eyebrows contracted and his voice became grave. “My generation. We old folk are poor companions.”
“She doesn’t belong to your generation.” Cynthia flushed, and her lips trembled. She put out her hand and laid it on her husband’s arm. “You are the best of companions—a companion that I have missed dreadfully.”
“There!” General Beckford laughed gaily. “Did you hear that, Ridsdale? That’s the sort of thing we old chaps like—even if we aren’t vain enough to think we deserve it. Leave that where it is, Yates.”
Yates was about to remove the hand-bag and take it to his master’s room.
“Very good, Sir John.”
“And you can go to Euston now—no hurry. Take a bus.”
“Yes, Sir John.”
“Smoking permitted?” And the General bowed again to his wife. “Light your cigarette, Ridsdale. No, I mustn’t have any coffee on top of whisky and soda.”