Bolt was waiting for them, and so were the two old ladies. They were in the drawing room and for the
first time since Jason had come to Australia there was a fire lit in the
fireplace. It was chilly out, a still
night with a slight southerly off the Antarctic seas. The fire was mostly ash and embers but the
room was warm. Both women nursed glasses
of wine, and there was an open bottle of red on the table.
“Oh, how nice you’re home early!” exclaimed Eleanor.
“How nice you’re still up!” answered Jason, smiling at her in pleasure.
“When you’re old you don’t sleep as much which is as if God wants you to
make the best of your time on earth though I expect Canon Green would denounce
that as untheological though I’ve always thought that we should interpret the
Bible and all that stuff our own way because each of us sees the world
differently but I’m sure he Canon Green I mean would be very gentle because
he’s such a good man and far nicer than that bishop who’s some connexion of
your mother so pedantic and full of himself and so unctuous and orotund like a
badly made vase with moth-eaten hair.”
Eleanor placidly listened to this confused effusion and as soon as a
small gap emerged in the conversation said,
“There are some glasses in that sideboard over there, Jason. Do have a glass—you too Keith—if you would
like one.”
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