Of course, Katharine reflected, her mother had now lost some paper, and they would waste the rest of the morning looking for it.

She cast her eyes down in irritation, and read again her mother's musical sentences about the silver gulls, and the roots of little pink flowers washed by pellucid streams, and the blue mists of hyacinths, until she was struck by her mother's silence.

She raised her eyes.

Mrs.Hilbery had emptied a portfolio containing old photographs over her table, and was looking from one to another.
"Surely, Katharine," she said, "the men were far handsomer in those days than they are now, in spite of their odious whiskers?
Look at old John Graham, in his white waistcoat--look at Uncle Harley.

That's Peter the manservant, I suppose.