“Where’s Germany?”
They catechized him for a few minutes; informed him of their own well-being, of a train recently purchased; kissed their mother; and hurried off—having tasks to perform, serious tasks with hoops and sticks, in which their parents had no part. In concentration on the immediate job, Peter’s kiddies were uncannily like their father.
“I must be off to the office,” he announced as soon as they were out of the room. “Anything on for tonight?”
“No, dear.”
“Right. I may be a little late. About seven, I expect. . . .”
“He’s very—American,” thought Pat, as she watched him stride off, inevitable cigar in his mouth, towards the Tube.
For Patricia, like most English people at the time, recognized only two classes of Americans—the over-worked rich and the idle rich. Of the true America, of the people with ideals, the quiet folk who are found neither at the Ritz Carlton nor in the cabaret, she was utterly ignorant. . . .
“He’s a splendid pal,” said Reason.
But, in Reason’s despite, instinct wished that he had remembered to kiss her good-bye.