At the end, when the party was breaking up, Miss Wickford, who had enjoyed her evening immensely, said to Christopher, ‘Come and see me on Sunday.’
‘No—you come to us,’ he answered.
She looked at him surprised. ‘But wouldn’t that bore your mother dreadfully?’ she asked.
‘Bore my mother?’ echoed Christopher, staring. ‘What mother?’
‘Why, isn’t——’
Miss Wickford broke off, instinctively feeling she was somehow getting into trouble. That little made-up Mrs. Monckton on the sofa—wasn’t she the boy’s mother?
‘My mother died when I was three,’ said Christopher.
‘Poor you,’ murmured Miss Wickford non-commitally: something warned her to be cautious.
‘But my wife will be delighted if you’ll come.’
There was the briefest silence. Then Emily managed to say, without, she trusted, showing her astonishment, ‘How perfectly sweet of her. I’ll ring up and ask.’