‘That’s why I’m asking him.’
‘Ask Fleur, she has a head. Have you got this zinnia at Condaford? D’you know, Dinny, I think Adrian’s goin’ potty.’
‘Aunt Em!’
‘He moons so; and I don’t believe there’s anywhere you could stick a pin into him. Of course I mustn’t say it to you, but I think he ought to have her.’
‘So do I, Auntie.’
‘Well, he won’t.’
‘Or she won’t.’
‘They neither of them will; so how it’s to be managed I don’t know. She’s forty.’
‘How old is Uncle Adrian?’
‘He’s the baby, all but Lionel. I’m fifty-nine,’ said Lady Mont decisively. ‘I know I’m fifty-nine, and your father is sixty; your grandmother must have been in a great tear at that time, she kept on havin’ us. What do you think about this question of havin’ children?’
Dinny swallowed a bubble and said:
‘Well, for married people, perhaps, in moderation.’
‘Fleur’s going to have another in March; it’s a bad month – careless! When are you goin’ to get married, Dinny?’
‘When my young affections are engaged, not before.’
‘That’s very prudent. But not an American.’
Dinny flushed, smiled dangerously and said:
‘Why on earth should I marry an American?’
‘You never know,’ said Lady Mont, twisting off a faded aster; ‘it depends on what there is about. When I married Lawrence, he was so about!’
‘And still is, Aunt Em; wonderful, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t be sharp!’
And Lady Mont seemed to go into a dream, so that her hat looked more enormous than ever.
‘Talking of marriage, Aunt Em, I wish I knew of a girl for Hubert. He does so want distracting.’
‘Your uncle,’ said Lady Mont, ‘would say distract him with a dancer.’
‘Perhaps Uncle Hilary knows one that he could highly recommend.’
‘You’re naughty, Dinny. I always thought you were naughty. But let me think: there was a girl; no, she married.’
‘Perhaps she’s divorced by now.’
‘No. I think she’s divorcin’ him, but it takes time. Charmin’ little creature.’
‘I’m sure. Do think again, Auntie.’
‘These bees,’ replied her aunt, ‘belong to Boswell. They’re Italian. Lawrence says they’re Fascists.’
‘Black shirts and no after-thoughts. They certainly seem very active bees.’
‘Yes; they fly a lot and sting you at once if you annoy them. Bees are nice to me.’
‘You’ve got one on your hat, dear. Shall I take it off?’
‘Stop!’ said Lady Mont, tilting her hat back, with her mouth slightly open: ‘I’ve thought of one.’
‘One what?’
‘Jean Tasburgh, the daughter of our Rector here – very good family. No money, of course.’
‘None at all?’
Lady Mont shook her head, and the hat wobbled. ‘No Jean ever has money. She’s pretty. Rather like a leopardess.’
‘Could I look her over, Auntie? I know fairly well what Hubert wouldn’t like.’
‘I’ll ask her to dinner. They feed badly. We married a Tasburgh once. I think it was under James, so she’ll be a cousin, but terribly removed. There’s a son, too; in the Navy, all there, you know, and no moustache. I believe he’s stayin’ at the Rectory on furlong.’
‘Furlough, Aunt Em.’
‘I knew that word was wrong. Take that bee off my hat, there’s a dear.’
Dinny took the small bee off the large hat with her handkerchief, and put it to her ear.
‘I still like to hear them buzz,’ she said.
‘I’ll ask him too,’ answered her aunt; ‘his name’s Alan, a nice fellow.’ And she looked at Dinny’s hair. ‘Medlar-coloured, I call it. I think he’s got prospects, but I don’t know what they are. Blown up in the war.’
‘He came down again whole, I hope, Auntie?’
‘Yes; they gave him something or other for it. He says it’s very stuffy in the Navy now. All angles, you know, and wheels, and smells. You must ask him.’
‘About the girl, Aunt Em, how do you mean, a leopardess?’
‘Well, she looks at you, and you expect to see a cub comin’ round the corner. Her mother’s dead. She runs the parish.’
‘Would she run Hubert?’
‘No; she’d run anybody who tried to run him.’
‘That might do. Can I take a note for you to the Rectory?’
‘I’ll send Boswell and Johnson,’ Lady Mont looked at her wrist. ‘No, they’ll have gone to dinner. I always set my watch by them. We’ll go ourselves, Dinny; it’s only quarter of a mile. Does my hat matter?’