"His lordship coming to tea?" said Mrs Wren, with a demure glance at the five cups on the tray.
None knew so well as she that his lordship was coming to tea. She had made elaborate preparations in toilette and confectionery in order to receive him. But the phrase rose so histrionically to her lips that she simply couldn't resist it. Somehow it made such a perfect entrance, for Milly's mother carried a sense of the theater into private life.
It would have been heartless of Milly, who belonged to another generation, to have uttered the words on her tongue. And those words were, "You know perfectly well that Sonny is coming."
"He said he was," Milly's reply was given with a patient smile that concealed an infinity of boredom. Her mother, fussy, trite, rather exasperating, had never quite learned amid all her jousts with the world, to acquire the golden mean. There were times when she sorely tried her clever and ambitious daughter, whose patience was little short of angelic.
"What's the name of the friend he is bringing?"
"Mr. Dinneford."
"Not another lord?" The tone of Mrs. Wren had a tiny note of disappointment.
"A rich commoner," said Milly with a laugh. "At least Sonny says he will be one of the richest men in England when his uncle dies. His uncle, I believe, is a great swell."
"I don't doubt it, dear," said Mrs. Wren.
