Victor had found a sheet of notepaper and, bending to the light, was searching its scrawled lines with narrowed eyes.
“‘Too lovely,’ she calls you—and quite justly, my dear. Yes; here it is: ‘Too lovely for words.’ And she wants me to bring my ‘charming daughter’ down to Frampton Court for this week-end.”
Sofia said nothing, but put her half-empty glass aside. The wine had done her good, she thought. She felt better, stronger, mentally more alert, and at the same time curiously soothed.
Victor refolded the note and tapped the table with it, holding Sofia with speculative eyes.
“It should be amusing,” he said, thoughtfully, “a new experience for you. Elaine—I mean Lady Randolph West, of course—is a charming hostess, and never fails to fill Frampton Court with delightful people.”
“I’m sure I should love it.”
“I am sure you would. And yet ... I may have been a little premature, since I have already written accepting the invitation.” He indicated an addressed envelope face up on the table. “But on second thoughts, it seemed perhaps wiser to consult you first.”
“But if it is your wish, I must go,” Sofia replied, mindful of Karslake’s injunction not to oppose Victor. “What have I to say—?”
“Everything about whether we accept or do not—or if not everything, at least the final word. I must abide by your decision.”
“But I shall be only too glad—”