“No, I’m not. I’m going to lunch at the club, then I’m going to do a little shopping and later I’m going to tea with the Ponsonby-Piggots.”
“Really! Are you lunching at the club with somebody?”
“No, I’ve somebody lunching with me.”
Again Regina felt that curious sensation of a douche of cold water administered over her entire person. Well, she had brought up her children to be independent, to have wills, caprices, likes and dislikes of their own, she could not blame them if they were not of the clinging, great-chum-with-mother type which she would have preferred them to be at this moment.
“Suppose we make it a fixture for the day after to-morrow?” said Julia, helping herself to more delicate strips of bacon from the covered silver dish before her.
“Yes, certainly.”
“Shall we lunch here or in town?” Julia went on.
“Whichever you like.”
“Your club is such a long way,” said Julia, with a faint accent of disparagement in her tones; “to my mind that is the worst of professional clubs; they’re always so ultra-professional that one can’t find a corner for anything at all fashionable. Suppose you come and lunch with me, mother dear? If you are giving up your societies why don’t you join a good West-End club? You’d find it so useful, living out as far as we do.”
“I think I must.”