“That woman was here this afternoon!” he blurted out.
“What woman?” inquired his master, looking at him seriously.
“Her ladyship.”
“Well, and what of that? She called at my invitation. I’m sorry I was not in.”
“And I’m very glad I had the satisfaction of sending that woman away,” declared the ancient retainer bluntly.
“Why, Parsons? Surely it’s hardly the proper thing to speak of a lady as ‘that woman’?”
“Master. Dudley,” said the old man, “you’ll forgive me for speaking plain, won’t you? It would, I know, be called presumption in other houses for a servant to speak like this to his master, but you are thirty-three now, and for those thirty-three years I’ve advised you, just as I would my own son.”
“I know, Parsons, I know. My father trusted you implicitly, just as I have done. Speak quite plainly. I’m never offended by your criticisms.”
“Well, sir, that woman may have a title, but she’s not at all a desirable acquaintance for you, a rising man.”
Chisholm smiled. Claudia Nevill was a smart woman, moving in the best set in London; something of a lion-hunter, it was true, but a really good sort, nevertheless.