‘Yes, my lady?’
‘Cocktails, Blore.’
‘Aunt Em, we never drink cocktails.’
‘You do; I’ve seen you. Clare, you’re lookin’ thin; are you slimmin’ too?’
‘No. I’ve been in Scotland, Aunt Em.’
‘Followin’ the guns, and fishin’. Now run about the house. I’ll wait for you.’
When they were running about the house, Clare said to Dinny:
‘Where on earth did Aunt Em learn to drop her g’s?’
‘Father told me once that she was at a school where an un-dropped “g” was worse than a dropped “h”. They were bringin’ in a county fashion then, huntin’ people, you know. Isn’t she a dear?’
Clare nodded, slightly brightening her lips.
Re-entering the dining-room, they heard Lady Mont say:
‘James’s trousers, Blore.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘They look as if they were comin’ down. Can somethin’ be done about it?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Here you are! Your Aunt Wilmet’s gone to stay with Hen, Dinny. They’ll be differin’ all over the place. You’ve got a cold bird each. Dinny, what have you been doin’ with Alan? He’s lookin’ so interestin’, and his leave’s up tomorrow.’
‘I’ve not been doing anything with him, Aunt Em.’
‘That’s it, then. No. Give me my carrots, Blore. Aren’t you goin’ to marry him? I know he has prospects in Chancery – somewhere – Wiltshire, is it? He comes and puts his head in my hand about you.’
Under Clare’s gaze Dinny sat with fork suspended.
‘If you don’t take care, he’ll be gettin’ transferred to China and marryin’ a purser’s daughter. They say Hong Kong’s full of them. Oh! And my portulaca’s dead, Dinny. Boswell and Johnson went and watered it with liquid manure. They’ve no sense of smell. D’you know what they did once?’
‘No, Aunt Em.’
‘Had hay fever all over my pedigree rabbit – sneezin’ about the hutch, and the poor thing died. I gave them notice, but they didn’t go. They don’t, you know. Your Uncle pets them. Are you to wed, Clare?’
‘To “wed”! Aunt Em!’
‘I think it’s rather sweet, the uneducated papers use it. But are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Why? Haven’t you the time? I don’t like carrots really – so depressin’. But your Uncle’s gettin’ to a time of life – I have to be careful. I don’t know why men have a time of life. By rights he ought to be over it.’
‘He is, Aunt Em. Uncle Lawrence is sixty-nine; didn’t you know?’
‘Well, he’s never shown any signs yet. Blore!’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Go away!’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘There are some things,’ said Lady Mont, as the door closed, ‘that you can’t talk about before Blore – birth control, and your uncle, and that. Poor Pussy!’
She rose, went to the window, and dropped a cat into a flower bed.
‘How perfectly sweet Blore is with her!’ murmured Dinny.
‘They stray,’ she said, as she came back, ‘at forty-five, and they stray at sixty-five, and I don’t know when after that. I never strayed. But I’m thinkin’ of it with the Rector.’
‘Is he very lonely now, Auntie?’
‘No,’ said Lady Mont, ‘he’s enjoyin’ himself. He comes up here a lot.’
‘It would be delicious if you could work up a scandal.’
‘Dinny!’
‘Uncle Lawrence would love it.’
Lady Mont seemed to go into a sort of coma.
‘Where’s Blore?’ she said: ‘I want one of those pancakes after all.’
‘You sent him away.’
‘Oh! yes.’
‘Shall I tread on the gas, Aunt Em?’ said Clare; ‘it’s under my chair.’
‘I had it put there for your Uncle. He’s been readin’ me Gulliver’s Travels, Dinny. The man was coarse, you know.’
‘Not so coarse as Rabelais, or even as Voltaire.’
‘Do you read coarse books?’
‘Oh! well, those are classics.’
‘They say there was a book – Achilles, or something; your Uncle bought it in Paris; and they took it away from him at Dover. Have you read that?’
‘No,’ said Dinny.
‘I have,’ said Clare.
‘From what your Uncle tells me, you oughtn’t to.’
‘Oh! one reads anything now, Auntie, it never makes any difference.’
Lady Mont looked from one niece to the other.