“Will you take me to see him to-morrow?” she asked.
“With pleasure, so long as you promise not to talk socialism with him.”
“I will promise that readily, out of consideration to my escort. I wonder how it is,” she went on, looking up at him a little thoughtfully, “that you dislike serious subjects so much.”
“A frivolous turn of mind, I suppose,” he replied. “I certainly prefer to talk art with you.”
“But nowadays,” she protested, “it is altogether the fashion down at Chelsea to discard art and talk politics.”
“It’s a fashion I shouldn’t follow,” he advised. “I should stick to art, if I were you.”
“Well, that depends upon how you define politics, of course. I don’t mean Party politics. I mean the science of living, as a whole, not as a unit.”
The Princess ambled up to them.
“I don’t know what your political views are, Mr. Orden,” she said, “but you must look out for shocks if you discuss social questions with my niece. In the old days they would never have allowed her to live in Russia. Even now, I consider some of her doctrines the most pernicious I ever heard.”
“Isn’t that terrible from an affectionate aunt!”