And she was angry against the self-willed male. A servant too! She walked sullenly home.
She found Mrs. Bolton under the great beech tree on the knoll, looking for her.
“I just wondered if you’d be coming, my Lady,” the woman said brightly.
“Am I late?” asked Connie.
“Oh … only Sir Clifford was waiting for his tea.”
“Why didn’t you make it then?”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s hardly my place. I don’t think Sir Clifford would like it at all, my Lady.”
“I don’t see why not,” said Connie.
She went indoors to Clifford’s study, where the old brass kettle was simmering on the tray.
“Am I late, Clifford!” she said, putting down the few flowers and taking up the tea-caddy, as she stood before the tray in her hat and scarf. “I’m sorry! Why didn’t you let Mrs. Bolton make the tea?”
“I didn’t think of it,” he said ironically. “I don’t quite see her presiding at the tea-table.”
“Oh, there’s nothing sacrosanct about a silver teapot,” said Connie.
He glanced up at her curiously.