Manvers laughed.
“In what way?”
“You might write a book about the comparative tendencies of English and foreign life. Something useful—not like those little scrappy books that describe mimosa trees and amber necklaces and the Soudan, but something that really helped one to understand the difference between one nation and another, the influence of climate—climate has a great deal to do with character. Food too—the meat we eat in a day would last an Italian for a week. That must make a difference. And, as I said, you ought to settle down and marry, and become the centre of a little circle.”
“Tom always fills me with the envy for married life,” said he; “he really is ridiculously happy. But as regards the other, I don’t think I am made for a centre. I prefer circling myself.”
Lady Chatham rose to go.
“Well, it is five minutes to eleven,” she said, “and I must be off. You must think over all I have said.”
“I will think it over very seriously,” he replied.
Lord Chatham was dining at the House that night, and Maud sent a note to Tom asking him to make the fourth with Manvers and her mother. There was no one else coming, and little coats and black ties were the order of the evening.
The night was beautifully warm, and after dinner they all sat on the little terrace outside the drawing-room window.
Tom was in rather a sombre mood. His account of himself was that he had unaccountably stuck in his work and had been unable to get on. Manvers administered consolation.