‘He’s such a dear,’ said Lady Mont; ‘you won’t mind if he tweaks your ear? I’m so glad you came, Dinny; I’ve been so thinking of funerals. Do tell me your idea about the hereafter.’
‘Is there one, Auntie?’
‘Dinny! That’s so depressing.’
‘Perhaps those who want one have it.’
‘You’re like Michael. He’s so mental. Where did you pick Dinny up, Lawrence?’
‘In the street.’
‘That sounds improper. How is your father, Dinny? I hope he isn’t any the worse for that dreadful house at Porthminster. It did so smell of preserved mice.’
‘We’re all very worried about Hubert, Aunt Em.’
‘Ah! Hubert, yes. You know, I think he made a mistake to flog those men. Shootin’ them one can quite understand, but floggin’ is so physical and like the old Duke.’
‘Don’t you feel inclined to flog carters when they lash overloaded horses up-hill, Auntie?’
‘Yes, I do. Was that what they were doin’?’
‘Practically, only worse. They used to twist the mules’ tails and stick their knives into them, and generally play hell with the poor brutes.’
‘Did they? I’m so glad he flogged them; though I’ve never liked mules ever since we went up the Gemmi. Do you remember, Lawrence?’
Sir Lawrence nodded. On his face was the look, affectionate but quizzical, which Dinny always connected with Aunt Em.
‘Why, Auntie?’
‘They rolled on me; not they exactly, but the one I was ridin’. They tell me it’s the only time a mule has ever rolled on anybody – surefooted.’
‘Dreadful taste, Auntie!’
‘Yes; and most unpleasant – so internal. Do you think Hubert would like to come and shoot partridges at Lippinghall next week?’
‘I don’t think you could get Hubert to go anywhere just now. He’s got a terrible hump. But if you have a cubby-hole left for me, could I come?’
‘Of course. There’ll be plenty of room. Let’s see: just Charlie Muskham and his new wife, Mr Bentworth and Hen, Michael and Fleur, and Diana Ferse, and perhaps Adrian because he doesn’t shoot, and your Aunt Wilmet. Oh! ah! And Lord Saxenden.’
‘What!’ cried Dinny.
‘Why? Isn’t he respectable?’
‘But, Auntie – that’s perfect! He’s my objective.’
‘What a dreadful word; I never heard it called that before. Besides, there’s a Lady Saxenden, on her back somewhere.’
‘No, no, Aunt Em. I want to get at him about Hubert. Father says he’s the nod.’
‘Dinny, you and Michael use the oddest expressions. What nod?’
Sir Lawrence broke the petrified silence he usually observed in the presence of his wife.
‘Dinny means, my dear, that Saxenden is a big noise behind the scenes in military matters.’
‘What is he like, Uncle Lawrence?’
‘Snubby? I’ve known him many years – quite a lad.’
‘This is very agitatin’,’ said Lady Mont, resuming the parakeet.
‘Dear Auntie, I’m quite safe.’
‘But is Lord – er – Snubby? I’ve always tried to keep Lippin’-hall respectable. I’m very doubtful about Adrian as it is, but’ – she placed the parakeet on the mantelpiece – ‘he’s my favourite brother. For a favourite brother one does things.’
‘One does,’ said Dinny.
‘That’ll be all right, Em,’ put in Sir Lawrence. ‘I’ll watch over Dinny and Diana, and you can watch over Adrian and Snubby.’
‘Your uncle gets more frivolous every year, Dinny; he tells me the most dreadful stories.’ She stood still alongside Sir Lawrence and he put his hand through her arm.
Dinny thought: ‘The Red King and the White Queen.’
‘Well, good-bye, Dinny,’ said her Aunt, suddenly; ‘I have to go to bed. My Swedish masseuse is takin’ me off three times a week. I really am reducin’.’ Her eyes roved over Dinny: ‘I wonder if she could put you on a bit!’
‘I’m fatter than I look, Auntie.’
‘So am I – it’s distressin’. If your uncle wasn’t a hop-pole I shouldn’t mind so much.’ She inclined her cheek, and Dinny gave it a smacking kiss.
‘What a nice kiss!’ said Lady Mont. ‘I haven’t had a kiss like that for years. People do peck so! Come, Polly!’ and, with the parakeet upon her shoulder, she swayed away.
‘Aunt Em looks awfully well.’
‘She is, my dear. It’s her mania – getting stout; she fights it tooth and nail. We live on the most variegated cookery. It’s better at Lippinghall, because Augustine leads us by the nose, and she’s as French as she was thirty-five years ago when we brought her back from our honeymoon. Cooks like a bird, still. Fortunately nothing makes me fat.’