His hostess did not see his expression of discomfort. Her pretty eyes were intent upon the peas with which she was being served.
“Does your mother live in the country?” she asked, and took her peas with fastidious exactness.
Prothero coloured brightly. “She lives in London.”
“All the year?”
“All the year.”
“But isn't it dreadfully hot in town in the summer?”
Prothero had an uncomfortable sense of being very red in the face. This kept him red. “We're suburban people,” he said.
“But I thought—isn't there the seaside?”
“My mother has a business,” said Prothero, redder than ever.
“O-oh!” said Lady Marayne. “What fun that must be for her?”