“It’s his mother he’s like,” said Oswald, laying a hand on Peter’s shoulder.
“I never saw a family harp on themselves more than the Sydenhams,” the lady declared. “It’s like the Habsburg chin.... This one of the new improper dances, Peter?”
“Honi soit,” said Peter.
“People have been whipped at the cart’s tail for less. In my mother’s time no decent woman waltzed. Even—in crinolines. Now a waltz isn’t close enough for them.”
The gramophone came to an end and choked. “Thank goodness!” said Lady Charlotte.
“Won’t you dance yourself, Lady Charlotte?” said Peter, standing up to her politely.
The hard blue eye regarded him with a slightly impaired disfavour, but the old lady made no reply.
They heard the startled voice of the youth from Cambridge. “It’s her!”...
But the sting of the call was at its end.
“So that’s Peter,” said Lady Charlotte, as the chauffeur and Oswald assisted her back into her liver-coloured car. “I told you I saw the Gal?”