There were also one or two portraits of
fathers and grandmothers, and an engraving of John Stuart Mill, after
the picture by Watts. It was a room without definite character, being
neither typically and openly hideous, nor strenuously artistic, nor
really comfortable. Rachel roused herself from the contemplation of this
familiar picture.
"But this isn't very interesting for you," she said, looking up.
"Good Lord!" Hewet exclaimed. "I've never been so much interested in my
life." She then realised that while she had been thinking of Richmond,
his eyes had never left her face. The knowledge of this excited her.
"Go on, please go on," he urged. "Let's imagine it's a Wednesday. You're
all at luncheon. You sit there, and Aunt Lucy there, and Aunt Clara
here"; he arranged three pebbles on the grass between them.
"Aunt Clara carves the neck of lamb," Rachel continued. She fixed her
gaze upon the pebbles. "There's a very ugly yellow china stand in
front of me, called a dumb waiter, on which are three dishes, one for
biscuits, one for butter, and one for cheese. There's a pot of ferns.
Then there's Blanche the maid, who snuffles because of her nose. We
talk--oh yes, it's Aunt Lucy's afternoon at Walworth, so we're rather
quick over luncheon. She goes off. She has a purple bag, and a black
notebook. Aunt Clara has what they call a G.F.
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