Muriel frowned.
"I wish you wouldn't always be imagining that I have any thoughts as you call them. You always ask such impossible questions, mother."
Mary turned away with a sigh. It was not thus that she had pictured her daughter at fifteen when ten years ago she used to enter the nursery on tiptoe and steal through the dim hush to where in her cot Muriel lay sleeping as still as a gathered carnation. It was not for this Muriel that she had peered into the future, not for this Muriel that she had stood in the door on her way out and looked back to see that the night light was burning faithfully in the glimmering saucer.
"Geoffrey, you and your friend Mr. Whittington-Jones, never seem to talk about anything except horses and cards."
Geoffrey, remembering that he owed his mother a hundred pounds and that a time might come when he should wish to extend this obligation, tried not to look irritated by the question. The result was an expression of patient long-suffering, which irritated her.
"Really, my dear boy," she exclaimed, "there is no occasion for you to assume that expression of injured innocence. You do talk a great deal about horses and cards."
"Well, the men I know best are interested in horses," Geoffrey muttered. "And surely one can be interested in horses without being jumped on?"
"I'm not jumping on you, dear Geoffrey. I don't think I ever jumped on anybody. Sometimes I think it would be better if I did jump on people. I do hope that you will try to make the best of your time at Oxford. It would be such a pity if you wasted these years. You would always regret them and wish you could have them all over again."
Geoffrey removed his weight from his right leg and put it upon his left.