Sophia laughed.
‘I would sooner be a milkmaid,’ she said, ‘but such a thing is not possible.’
‘And that delightful position,’ continued Petros, with the irritating manner of a man unaware of an interruption, ‘has certain responsibilities attached to it. You cannot get rid of them except by sheer gross neglect of your duties, but to tell you the truth, they are not very onerous. One of them is that you should preserve the form, at any rate, of attending to the business of the House. I do not think you need really fear writer’s cramp from signing their resolutions, whatever writer’s cramp may be; I suppose it is the result of writing. But you must perform your simple duties——’
‘I have seen that in copper-plate hand in the copy-books I used to do when I was a child,’ remarked Sophia.
‘That is where I got it from. It seems to me very true, though a little stale. I do not interfere with you, as you very well know, and I am, of course, powerless to prevent you going away when you wish. But I think you will make a very great mistake if you go away now.’
‘Tant pis,’ said she. ‘Let us start on the last day of this month. And oh, Petros, there is a little place on the Riviera——’
Petros rose and walked about in seeming agitation for a moment or two. He was managing his cards beautifully. Then he turned sharply to her.
‘Go, then, Sophia,’ he said; ‘but I shall not come with you.’
Sophia stared.
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘I promise never to refer to your system. And the sea is usually calm at this time of year.’