Mr. Philip pondered a little.
“A bit awkward perhaps. I say, Mater, don’t you think you could fix up another day?”
The gaze of Mother grew a little less abstract at this invocation.
“Impossible, Phil-ipp”—the Rubens-Minerva countenance, whose ample chin was folded trebly in rolls of adipose tissue was a credit to the Governing Classes—“Dear Adela goes to High Cliff on Wednesday for the shooting.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” said Mr. Philip quite nicely and politely, “that I shall have to go to Drury Lane this afternoon.”
“Have to go, Phil-ipp!” Still ampler grew the Governing Classes. “It is really impossible in the circumstances.”
“What circumstances, Mater?”
“Dear Adela.”
“She won’t mind, if you explain. It’s like this, you see. Teddy Clapham has taken a box for his kids, and I promised ’em I’d be there—and you can’t go back on your word with kids, can you?”
“Why not, Phil-ipp?” inquired the Governing Classes.