Father declined a cup of coffee and a cigarette without any effervescence of gratitude.
“Take a pew, won’t you?” said the young man, returning to his toast and butter.
Cool and off-handed young fellow, perhaps, thus to receive a great Proconsul, still his tone was not without deference, even if his air was casual.
Father took a pew.
“You don’t look very comfy in that one. Take the one with the arms to it.”
“Do quite well, thanks,” said Father, in a deep bass voice.
A state of armed neutrality?—ye-es, it did seem rather like it. Father didn’t seem quite to know where to begin: Son knew better than to provide assistance.
“See in the paper that Van rather got across old Balsquith last night?” said Son conversationally.
Father had heard the debate from the Peers’ Gallery.
Son wondered what would win the Coronation Vase—havin’ forgotten that Father didn’t go racin’.