“Four.”
“He does n't look a bit common, Dick.”
Shelton gazed at her dubiously.
“They're surely not going to make a show of him!” he thought.
Mrs. Dennant was writing, in a dark-blue dress starred over with white spots, whose fine lawn collar was threaded with black velvet.
“Have you seen the new hybrid Algy's brought me back from Kidstone? Is n't it charmin'.” and she bent her face towards this perfect rose. “They say unique; I'm awfully interested to find out if that's true. I've told Algy I really must have some.”
Shelton thought of the unique hybrid breakfasting downstairs; he wished that Mrs. Dennant would show in him the interest she had manifested in the rose. But this was absurd of him, he knew, for the potent law of hobbies controlled the upper classes, forcing them to take more interest in birds, and roses, missionaries, or limited and highly-bound editions of old books (things, in a word, in treating which you knew exactly where you were) than in the manifestations of mere life that came before their eyes.
“Oh, Dick, about that young Frenchman. Antonia says he wants a tutorship; now, can you really recommend him? There's Mrs. Robinson at the Gateways wants someone to teach her boys languages; and, if he were quite satisfactory, it's really time Toddles had a few lessons in French; he goes to Eton next half.”
Shelton stared at the rose; he had suddenly realised why it was that people take more interest in roses than in human beings—one could do it with a quiet heart.
“He's not a Frenchman, you know,” he said to gain a little time.