Paul’s face, which had been very gay, fell suddenly. Christopher’s name troubled him. He was on such delightfully—for him—easy terms with the Duchessa.
“But bring Monsieur Christopher too,” said Pippa calmly.
The Duchessa looked at Paul.
“But where does she live?” she asked. “And may we accept this invitation wholesale?”
“By all means,” Paul assured her. “Pippa lives in studio number seven with Miss Mason, don’t you, Pippa? And we all invade that studio at any hour. Miss Mason ties up cuts, finds new servants for us when our old ones get out of hand, administers hot concoctions of her own brewing when any of us have colds, in short, mothers us all round. And Pippa gives us excellent advice as to the colour of our socks and ties. We really don’t care to think of what we were before Aunt Olive and Pippa took us in hand.”
“So you will come?” said Pippa, standing near the door.
Paul went over to open it for her.
“Yes, we’ll come,” he said.
“The Duchessa, you, and Monsieur Christopher,” said Pippa gaily.
“Oh, yes,” said Paul, an odd inflexion in his voice, “no doubt Monsieur Christopher will come too.”