Michael sighed at the ingenuity of his mother’s method, and changed the subject to their fellow-guests.
“That’s rather a pretty girl, don’t you think?”
“Where, dear?” asked Mrs. Fane, putting up her lorgnette and staring hard at the wife of a clergyman sitting across the room from their table.
“No, no, mother,” said Michael, beaming with pleasure at the delightful vagueness of his mother which only distressed him when it shrouded his own sensations. “The next table—the girl in pink.”
“Yes, decidedly,” said Mrs. Fane. “But dreadfully common. I can’t think why those sort of people come to nice hotels. I suppose they read about them in railway guides.”
“I don’t think she’s very common,” said Michael.
“Well, dear, you’re not quite at the best age for judging, are you?”
“Hang it, mother, I’m seventeen.”
“It’s terrible to think of,” said Mrs. Fane. “And only such a little while ago you were the dearest baby boy. Then Stella must be sixteen,” she went on. “I think it’s time she came back from the Continent.”
“What about her first concert?”