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That somewhat hectic drive, for the children were little used to cars, to Di
They arrived in time for lunch, and, leaving the children with Mademoiselle, who had come down by train, Di
“Oh! Miss Di
“No, Betty; I’ve been away. How are you?”
The little old woman, for she was of pocket size, crossed her hands solemnly on her middle.
“My stummick’s bad again. I ‘aven’t nothin’ else the matter—the doctor says I’m wonderful. Just my stummick. ‘E says I ought to eat more; and I’ve such an appetite, Miss Di
“Dear Betty, I’m so sorry. Tummies are a dreadful nuisance. Tummies and teeth. I can’t think why we have them. If you haven’t teeth you can’t digest; and if you have teeth you can’t digest either.”
The old lady cackled thinly.
“‘E du say I ought to ‘ave the rest of my teeth out, but I don’t like to part with ’em, Miss Di
“But you could have some lovely false ones, Betty.”
“Oh! I don’t want to ‘ave no false teeth—so pretenshus. You wouldn’t never wear false teeth, would you, Miss Di
“Of course I would, Betty. Nearly all the best people have them nowadays.”
“You will ‘ave your joke. No, I shouldn’t like it. I’d as soon wear a wig. But my ‘air’s as thick as ever. I’m wonderful for my age. I’ve got a lot to be thankful for; it’s only my stummick, an’ that’s like as if there was somethin’ there.”
Di
“How is Benjamin, Betty?”
The eyes changed, became amused and yet judgmatic, as if she were considering a child.
“Oh! Father’s all right, Miss; ‘e never ‘as anything the matter except ‘is rheumatiz; ‘e’s out now doin’ a bit o’ diggin’.”
“And how’s Goldie?” said Di
“Oh!” said the old lady, “‘e thinks ‘e’s someone since you give him that bigger cage.” Her eyes brightened. “Fancy the Captain married, Miss Di
“It is, Betty.”
“I’m told she’s a fine young lady. And where’ll they be goin’ to live?”
“Nobody knows yet; we have to wait for this case to be over. Perhaps down here, or perhaps he’ll get a post abroad. They’ll be very poor, of course.”
“Dreadful; it never was like that in old days. The way they put upon the gentry now—oh, dear! I remember your great-grandfather, Miss Di
Such references to the gentry never ceased to make Di
“Well, Betty dear, what CAN you digest, so that I can tell cook?”
“Thank you kindly, Miss Di
“Oh! no, Betty dear. With a little proper feeding I know you’re going to feel better.”
The old lady smiled below her eyes.
“I’m wonderful for my age, so it’d never do to complain. And when are the bells goin’ to ring for you, Miss Di
“Don’t mention them, Betty. They won’t ring of their own accord—that’s certain.”
“Ah! People don’t marry young, and ‘ave the families they did in my young days. My old Aunt ‘ad eighteen an’ reared eleven.”
“There doesn’t seem room or work for them now, does there?”
“Aye! The country’s changed.”
“Less down here than in most places, thank goodness.” And Di
“Well, Betty, I must go. I’m staying in London just now with a friend, and have to get back there this evening. I’ll tell cook to send some little things that’ll be better for you than pork even. Don’t get up!”
But the little old woman was on her feet, her eyes looking out from her very soul.
“I am that glad to ‘ave seen you, Miss Di
“Good-bye, Betty dear, and remember me to Benjamin,” and pressing the old lady’s hand Di
After an early tea she started back, in the now closed car, sitting beside Fleur.
“I must say,” said that shrewd young woman, “Condaford is the most peaceful place I was ever in. I should die of it, Di
“Old and mouldering, um?”
“Well, I always tell Michael that your side of his family is one of the least expressed and most interesting phenomena left in England. You’re wholly unvocal, utterly out of the limelight. Too unsensational for the novelists, and yet you’re there, and go on being there, and I don’t quite know how. Every mortal thing’s against you, from Death Duties down to gramophones. But you persist generally at the ends of the earth, doing things that nobody knows or cares anything about. Most of your sort haven’t even got Condafords now to come home and die in; and yet you still have roots, and a sense of duty. I’ve got neither, you know, I suppose that comes of being half French. My father’s family—the Forsytes—may have roots, but they haven’t a sense of duty—not in the same way; or perhaps it’s a sense of service that I mean. I admire it, you know, Di