“Yes, you would. You don't mind being tied down by your own Inky,” said Charles.
“That's different. I have set hours with him.”
“Not much you don't!” said Charles rudely. “You're always being kept on after hours because he's in the middle of a chapter, or wants you to manage one of his beastly parties!”
His mother, not betraying the fact that she had received sudden enlightenment, said in an easy tone: “Abby is Geoffrey Silloth's secretary, Delia. So interesting!”
“No, by Jove, are you really?” said Kenelm. “What's he like?”
“Oh, quite a toot!” replied Abby cheerfully. “He's gone off to Antibes for a fortnight, which is why I've got a holiday.”
This description of a distinguished man of letters was received with equanimity by Mrs. Haswell, accustomed to the phraseology of youth; with complete understanding by Charles, and the Lindales; and with patent nausea by Gavin Plenmeller, who asked in silken accents to have the term explained to him.
“Ah, here come Mrs. Cliburn and the Squire!” said Mrs. Haswell, rising to greet these timely arrivals. “Edith, how nice! But, Bernard, isn't Rosamund coming?”
The Squire, a squarely built man who looked older than his sixty years, shook hands, saying: “One of her heads. She told me to make her apologies, and say she'd be along to tea, if she feels up to it. I don't think there's much hope of it, but I left the car for her, just in case.”
“Oh, dear, I am sorry! You know Mrs. Lindale, don't you? And her husband, of course.”