“No, no. I’m sure you were right, when you said St. James’,” persisted Mrs. Fane.
“Perhaps I was,” Lord Saxby sighed. “Well, Valérie—not again. It’s too damnably tantalizing.”
“I thought just once while he was still small,” said Mrs. Fane softly. “Photographs are so unsatisfactory. And you haven’t yet heard Stella play.”
“Valérie, I couldn’t. Look at this great barrack of a house. If you only knew how I long sometimes for—what a muddle it all is!”
Then a footman came in with tea, and Michael wondered what dinner was like in this house, if mere tea were so grand and silvery.
“I think I must drive you back in the phaeton,” said Lord Saxby.
“No, no, Charles. No more rules must be broken.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But don’t—not again, please. I can’t bear to think of the ‘ifs.’”
Then Lord Saxby turned to Michael.
“Look here, young man, what do you want most?”