CHAPTER THIRTEENCosy
On Monday afternoon, April the seventeenth, Jerome Austen and his sister were having their tea beside the window with the medallions of German stained glass. Norah, her face wreathed in smiles, passed plates of delicate little sandwiches. Aby sat under the table, rising to scraps and morsels as a trout rises to a fly.
Jerome nodded to Norah, speechless for the moment; then he got his sandwich down and said: “Tell her they’re fine.”
“Yes, sir, she knew you’d like them.”
When Norah had gone Jerome said: “It’s a relief, having that surly little brute out of the place.”
“Yes, it’s cosy. If it weren’t for the risk…”
“No risk. Without the brace he’ll be as spry as a cricket,” said Jerome.
“I think it’s so awful, having to pay him so much of our money,” complained Hild
