“Sort of gives ’em wrong views about things, you know.”
“How absurd,” said Mother. “Much too sentimental about children nowadays. Telephone to Mr. Clapham and explain the circumstances. I am sure he will understand that as dear Adela is going to High Cliff on Wednesday—”
A cloud gathered on the brow of Philip.
“May be wrong, you know, Mater, but I really can’t go back on my word with kids. I promised ’em, you know, and that little Marge is a nailer, and she is only five.”
The statement, in spite of its sincerity, did not seem to carry conviction to either parent.
The heir to the barony was a dutiful young man; at least, in an age which has witnessed a somewhat alarming decline in parental authority, he passed as such. His deference, perhaps, was not of a type aggressively old-fashioned, but he honored his father and his mother.
“I’ll get a box for the ‘Chocolate Soldier’ on Monday if you and Adela will come, Mater, but I don’t see how I can throw over Teddy Clapham’s kids—five of ’em—toddlers—and they ain’t got a mother, you know.”
“Phil-ipp, this is ridiculous. And dear Adela will be so disappointed, and on Monday there is a reception at the Foreign Office.”
“You can go on afterwards.”
“But your father and I are engaged to dinner with the Saxmundhams.”