'I really don't see why we shouldn't,' said Constantia carefully. She was quite normal again. 'I won't ring. I'll go to the kitchen door and ask her.'
'Yes, do,' said Josephine, sinking down into a chair. 'Tell her, just two cups, Con, nothing else—on a tray.'
'She needn't even put the jug on, need she?' said Constantia, as though Kate might very well complain if the jug had been there.
'Oh no, certainly not! The jug's not at all necessary. She can pour it direct out of the kettle,' cried Josephine, feeling that would be a labour-saving indeed.
Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims. Josephine curved her small red hands round the cup; Constantia sat up and blew on the wavy steam, making it flutter from one side to the other.
'Speaking of Benny,' said Josephine.
And though Benny hadn't been mentioned Constantia immediately looked as though he had.
'He'll expect us to send him something of father's, of course. But it's so difficult to know what to send to Ceylon.'
'You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage,' murmured Constantia.
'No, lost,' said Josephine sharply. 'You know there's no post. Only runners.'
Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running through the pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper parcel in his hands. Josephine's black man was tiny; he scurried along glistening like an ant. But there was something blind and tireless about Constantia's tall, thin fellow, which made him, she decided, a very unpleasant person indeed... On the veranda, dressed all in white and wearing a cork helmet, stood Benny. His right hand shook up and down, as father's did when he was impatient. And behind him, not in the least interested, sat Hilda, the unknown sister-in-law. She swung in a cane rocker and flicked over the leaves of the 'Tatler.'
'I think his watch would be the most suitable present,' said Josephine.
Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised.
'Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?'
'But of course, I'd disguise it,' said Josephine. 'No one would know it was a watch.' She liked the idea of having to make a parcel such a curious shape that no one could possibly guess what it was. She even thought for a moment of hiding the watch in a narrow cardboard corset-box that she'd kept by her for a long time, waiting for it to come in for something. It was such beautiful, firm cardboard. But, no, it wouldn't be appropriate for this occasion. It had lettering on it: 'Medium Women's 28. Extra Firm Busks.' It would be almost too much of a surprise for Benny to open that and find father's watch inside.
'And of course it isn't as though it would be going—ticking, I mean,' said Constantia, who was still thinking of the native love of jewellery. 'At least,' she added, 'it would be very strange if after all that time it was.'
Chapter 3.VIII.
Josephine made no reply. She had flown off on one of her tangents. She had suddenly thought of Cyril. Wasn't it more usual for the only grandson to have the watch? And then dear Cyril was so appreciative, and a gold watch meant so much to a young man. Benny, in all probability, had quite got out of the habit of watches; men so seldom wore waistcoats in those hot climates. Whereas Cyril in London wore them from year's end to year's end. And it would be so nice for her and Constantia, when he came to tea, to know it was there. 'I see you've got on grandfather's watch, Cyril.' It would be somehow so satisfactory.
Dear boy! What a blow his sweet, sympathetic little note had been! Of course they quite understood; but it was most unfortunate.
'It would have been such a point, having him,' said Josephine.
'And he would have enjoyed it so,' said Constantia, not thinking what she was saying.
However, as soon as he got back he was coming to tea with his aunties. Cyril to tea was one of their rare treats.
'Now, Cyril, you mustn't be frightened of our cakes. Your Auntie Con and I bought them at Buszard's this morning. We know what a man's appetite is. So don't be ashamed of making a good tea.'
Josephine cut recklessly into the rich dark cake that stood for her winter gloves or the soling and heeling of Constantia's only respectable shoes. But Cyril was most unmanlike in appetite.
'I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can't. I've only just had lunch, you know.'
'Oh, Cyril, that can't be true! It's after four,' cried Josephine. Constantia sat with her knife poised over the chocolate-roll.
'It is, all the same,' said Cyril. 'I had to meet a man at Victoria, and he kept me hanging about till... there was only time to get lunch and to come on here. And he gave me—phew'—Cyril put his hand to his forehead—'a terrific blow-out,' he said.
It was disappointing—to-day of all days. But still he couldn't be expected to know.
'But you'll have a meringue, won't you, Cyril?' said Aunt Josephine. 'These meringues were bought specially for you. Your dear father was so fond of them. We were sure you are, too.'
'I am, Aunt Josephine,' cried Cyril ardently. 'Do you mind if I take half to begin with?'
'Not at all, dear boy; but we mustn't let you off with that.'
'Is your dear father still so fond of meringues?' asked Auntie Con gently. She winced faintly as she broke through the shell of hers.
'Well, I don't quite know, Auntie Con,' said Cyril breezily.
At that they both looked up.
