Annette raised the eyebrows she had just finished.
“He yachts.”
“Ah!” said Soames; “he's a sleepy chap.”
“Sometimes,” answered Annette, and her face had a sort of quiet enjoyment. “But sometimes very amusing.”
“He's got a touch of the tar-brush about him.”
Annette stretched herself.
“Tar-brush?” she said. “What is that? His mother was Armenienne.”
“That's it, then,” muttered Soames. “Does he know anything about pictures?”
“He knows about everything—a man of the world.”
“Well, get some one for Fleur. I want to distract her. She's going off on Saturday to Val Dartie and his wife; I don't like it.”