Consuelo is causing me a great deal of anxiety.
Having delivered herself of this baleful bit of information, Laura Everest bent forward to manipulate her Sheffield tea-service. She poured out a cup for Campaspe Lorillard and, without asking her preferences in flavouring, dropped in two rose cubes of sugar, together with a little cream.
One lump and lemon, please, Campaspe protested, rejecting the proffered cup.
O dear, I forgot. I can't get Consuelo off my mind.
While Laura was arranging the exchange, Campaspe's eyes roved round the drawing-room, apparently appraising the Jacobean lacquer, the Chippendale chairs, and the portrait by Sir William Orpen of Laura Everest in the gown in which she had been presented at Buckingham, although years before she would have been able to make an inventory of every object in the room for an insurance inspector, so thoroughly was she acquainted with each one of them.
Ostensibly reflective, she stirred the contents of her cup. Yes, dear? she put forward at last, seemingly with no tinge of curiosity—it appeared as if
