He waved Peter to a seat. Peter seemed to prefer to perch himself on the tall steel fireguard. He divined with sufficient accuracy his father’s pose, and was partly amused, partly irritated. Silvia would have been wholly amused.
“Hope you’ll be comfortable here, father,” he said.
Mr. Mainwaring glanced round him.
“Yes, indeed,” he said. “I shall do very well. Ah, by the way, before we get to business, I have a letter from your mother which she asked me to give you. Perhaps you would hand me my despatch case.... Here it is.”
Peter was lighting a cigarette, and spoke between the puffs.
“Right. I’ll take it when I go,” he said. His father looked at the tapestried walls.
“My dear boy,” he said, “I don’t know if I am right to allow you to smoke here.”
Peter dropped his match on the carpet. He did that on purpose.
“Oh, don’t bother about that,” he said. “I allow myself. Now I suppose you want to talk to me about that cartoon?”
“You got my letter? You have arranged what I indicated?”