And as no young man likes to be thought a Cur by a boon companion, the miserable yet half-exultant Philip gathered his forces for the conflict.
“There’s something, Father, I’d like to say,” said he, as he performed the superfluous action of tucking the end of his handkerchief still further up his shirt-sleeve.
Perfect frankness was invited.
“I would like to say,” said the young man, “that I don’t feel that I can marry Adela.”
The timepiece with the silver tones had the only speaking part for the space of ninety seconds. And then out spoke Mother.
“Phil-ipp!”
“Can’t—possibly—Mater.”
“Phil-ipp!”
And all this time the benevolent autocrat, who had put on his eyeglasses and taken them off again, and then put them on again, was trying to recapture the touch of a great Proconsul who had started out in life with a Balliol scholarship.
“Of course, my dear boy, you must decide.” The Proconsular eyelids conveyed delicately to the Suffolk Colthurst that, after all, the Suaviter in Modo cannot be surpassed in the hands of an acknowledged master. “But, as Warlock knows already, we shall be very happy to make Lady Adela welcome in the family.”