Mr. Lambone turned to him. “What a Handful a daughter is!” he said, and bowed slightly towards Christina Alberta, “even the best of them.”
Mr. Preemby replied after the manner of the parents in Woodford Wells. “She’s a good daughter to me, sir.”
“Yes, but they aren’t like sons.”
“You have sons, sir, I presume.”
“Only dream children. I’ve not had your courage to realize things. I’ve married a hundred times in theory and here I am just a sort of bachelor uncle to everybody. Poking in among the younger people and observing their behaviour with”—his intelligent eyes looked quietly over his garrulous mouth at Christina Alberta—“terror and admiration.”
Two other visitors appeared in the doorway and Mr. Lambone turned from Mr. Preemby to greet them as soon as Fay had done her welcome, a fierce-looking young man with an immense head of black hair and a little lady like a china doll dressed to remind one of Watteau.
Conversation became general and Mr. Preemby receded into the background of events.
He found himself side by side with his friend with the silver hair, against his bookcase. “I didn’t expect a party,” he said.
“I thought so too.”
“I only got here this afternoon. The vans came late and lots of my things are still to be unpacked.”