‘But of course not. Certainly not. And Mr. Monckton is an old friend, isn’t he—that’s to say, as old a friend as one can be at such a very young age. I expect he’s your friend really, isn’t he? Though I don’t remember seeing him at Chickover before.’
‘Tell me what happened, mother,’ said Virginia, leading the way to her boudoir.
‘But is Mrs. Cumfrit safely back yet? That’s what I’m really anxious to hear,’ said Mrs. Colquhoun, taking off her gloves and woollen scarf, and sitting as far from the fire as she could, so as to convey, with the delicacy of action rather than the clumsiness of words, that a fire on such a sunny morning was unnecessary.
‘No,’ said Virginia.
‘Well, you mustn’t be agitated, dearest child. Mr. Monckton is a safe rider, I’m sure. And careful. Young, of course, and in so far headstrong, but I’m sure careful. Especially when taking some one of your mother’s age with him. How long have you known him?’
‘I haven’t known him,’ said Virginia stiffly.
She wouldn’t admit to herself that all this amazed and shook her. She would let no thought get through into her mind except that it was natural and perfectly ordinary, if one wanted to, to go off motor-cycling, natural and perfectly ordinary for anybody, her mother included.
‘Not known him?’ exclaimed Mrs. Colquhoun.
‘Mother has many friends I haven’t met,’ said Virginia, sitting very straight.
‘Quite. Of course. In London.’