Caroline was in the midst of a piece of gossip, Sophia was interjecting exclamations of moderation and reproach, and Mrs. Sales was manifestly amused. Her chromatic giggle was as punctual as Sophia’s reproof, and Rose drew closer to the group made by the three, and said, “I’m missing Caroline’s story. Which one is it?” And now it was Francis who laughed.
“It’s finished,” Caroline said. “Don’t tell your husband, at least till we have gone—and we ought to go at once.”
But the coachman was not on the box. He had been invited to take tea in the kitchen.
“We won’t disturb him,” Sophia said. “No, Caroline, let him have his tea. We ought to encourage teetotal drinking in his class. Perhaps Mrs. Sales will let us go round the garden. I am so fond of flowers.”
“Come and look at the pigsties,” Francis said to Rose, but, assuring him she had grown too old for pigs, she followed the rest.
The walled garden had a beautiful disorder. A grey kitten and a white puppy sat together on the grass, enjoying the sunshine and each other’s company and pretending to be asleep; and though the kitten displayed no interest in the visitors, holding its personality of more importance than anything else, the puppy jumped up, barked, and rushed at each person in turn. Caroline, picking up her skirts and showing the famous Mallett ankle, said, “Go away, dog!” in a severe tone, and the puppy rolled on the grass to show that he did not care and could not by any possibility be snubbed. Under an apple-tree on which the fruit was ripening were two cane chairs, a table, a newspaper and a work-basket.
“This is my favourite place,” Mrs. Sales said to Rose. “I hate that drawing-room, and Francis won’t have it touched. But I’ve got a boudoir that’s lovely. He sent an order to the best shop and had it ready for a surprise, so if I’m not out of doors I sit there. Would you like to see it?”
“Then come quickly while the others are eating those plums off the wall.”
Rose looked back. “I can’t think what Sophia will do with the stone,” she murmured, smiling her faint smile.
Mrs. Sales was puzzled by this remark. “Oh, she’ll manage, won’t she? You don’t want to help her, do you?”
Rose saw the boudoir, a little room half-way up the stairs. “It’s Louis something,” said Mrs. Sales, “but all the same, I think it’s sweet, and pink’s my favourite colour. Francis thought of that. I was wearing pink when I first met him.”