“So much so that nobody else can be considered to sing.”
Robin considered this.
“Well, that’s something,” he said. “He wanted to tip me, too, which was quite kind in intention. He thought I was at school.”
“You do look about sixteen,” said his mother. “How much was it? Did you take it?”
“Very likely, isn’t it? Especially when I won eleven pounds last night.”
The mournful Mr. Pantitzi, who had been sent for, entered at this moment with his restorative little wallet. He looked as if he had come to announce a death, and Lady Grote felt a slight tremor of suppressed laughter run through Robin’s side as he leaned against her, perched on the arm of her chair.... So Mr. Pantitzi was sent to be sad in the bathroom.
Robin waited, heroically self-contained, until he had vanished.
“My!” he said. “Who sent for the undertaker? What is it?”
“My Italian stainer and polisher, dear. He’s going to stain and polish me. Mind you don’t scream when you see me at lunch, because I shall have red hair by then!”
“Whaffor?” asked Robin.