It was Genevieve’s turn to be bewildered. “The—classics?” she echoed. “What are the classics?”
Phœbe knit her brows. “Why, they’re—they’re—well, just the most important thing. My Uncle John says ‘The classics are the foundation of culture’.”
“Is that so!” pondered Genevieve. “Well, I’d better put ’em down. What did you call ’em? ‘Kenilworth’?” She drew a handsome leather notebook from the richly embroidered handbag on her arm. “Because Mamma says, ‘Germans or no Germans, with our name we just got to have culture’.” She touched her tongue with the tip of a slender gold pencil and wrote.
Sophie, backed against the hall door, shook with silent laughter. As Phœbe glanced her way, roguishly, Sophie noiselessly applauded, and signalled Phœbe to continue her tactics.
Phœbe assumed the grand air. “I suppose you’ve heard about my father?” she began again.
“In Peru, ain’t he—isn’t he?” asked Genevieve.
“It’s South America,” said Phœbe. “Only a few people ever go there. Daddy is such a wonderful mining-engineer that they just had to have him.”
Genevieve put away her notes. “Well, I suppose now, the first thing you know, your father’ll be getting married.”
Phœbe turned white. All the grand air went, leaving her staring almost wildly. “Married!” she breathed. “My—father——”
Genevieve smiled with gratification. Her shot had gone home. “Mamma says,” she went on blandly, “that since this war, with so many men killed off, why, a man that ain’t—I should say isn’t—married don’t stand a chance.”