We were breakfasting together in the big window bay at Lady Grove that looks upon the iris beds; my uncle was in London.
I sounded an interrogative note and decapitated an egg.
"Who's Beatrice Normandy?" asked my aunt. "I've not heard of her before."
"She the young woman?"
"Yes. Says she knows you. I'm no hand at old etiquette, George, but her line is a bit unusual. Practically she says she's going to make her mother"
"Eh? Step-mother, isn't it?"
"You seem to know a lot about her. She says 'mother,'—Lady Osprey. They're to call on me, anyhow, next Wednesday week at four, and there's got to be you for tea."
"Eh?"
"You—for tea."
"H'm. She had rather—force of character when I knew her before."
I became aware of my aunt's head sticking out obliquely from behind the coffee-machine and regarding me with wide blue curiosity. I met her gaze for a moment, flinched, coloured and laughed.
"I've known her longer than I've known you," I said, and explained at length.
My aunt kept her eye on me over and round the coffee-machine as I did so. She was greatly interested, and asked several elucidatory questions.
"Why didn't you tell me the day you saw her? You've had her on your mind for a week," she said.
"It is odd I didn't tell you," I admitted.
"You thought I'd get a Down on her," said my aunt conclusively. "That's what you thought," and opened the rest of her letters.
