'That is not London,' said Charles from the bed, as she cried ecstatically. 'London is a very small circle, the centre of which is to the cultivated the National Gallery, and to the vulgar Piccadilly Circus.... Piccadilly Circus we can ignore. What we have to do is to stand on the dome of the National Gallery and sing our gospel. Then if we can make the cultured hear us, we shall have the vulgar gaping and opening their pockets.'
'I don't want you to be applauded by people who can't appreciate you,' said Clara.
'No?' grumbled Charles. 'Well, I'm going to have bath and breakfast and then I shall astonish you.'
'You always do that,' cried Clara. 'Darling Charles!'
She rang the bell, and sat on the bed, and in a few minutes they were enjoying their continental breakfast of coffee, rolls, and honey.
'I sometimes feel,' said Charles, 'that I have merely taken the place of your grandfather.... You are the only creature I have ever met who is younger than myself. That is why you can do as you like with me.... But you can't make me grow a beard.'
'I wish you would.'
'And then I should be like your grandfather?'
'No. You would be more like you.'
'You adorable child,' he said. 'You would reform me out of existence if you had your way.'