“Not quite. There are certain details to be arranged; and I may not see you again before we leave to-morrow afternoon. We will motor down to Frampton Court—it’s not far, little more than an hour by train—starting about half after four, if you can be ready.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Sybil Waring will tell you what to take, and Chou Nu will see to your packing. Both, by the way, will accompany us. Sybil’s maid will follow by train. For myself, I am taking Nogam—having found that English servants do not take kindly to my Chinese valet.”
“Yes ...” Sofia uttered, listlessly, wondering why this information should be considered of interest to her.
“And one thing more: I am forgiven? You are not cross with me?”
“Why should I be?”
“Because of what happened this afternoon—when I scolded Karslake for making love to you.”
“Oh,” said Sofia with a good show of indifference—she was so tired—“that!”
“Believe me, little Sofia”—Victor put out a hand to hers, and held her eyes with a compelling gaze—“boy-and-girl romance is all very well, but there is a greater destiny reserved for you than marriage to a hired secretary, however amiable, personable, and well-meaning. You must prepare yourself to move in a world beyond and above the common hearthstone of bourgeois domesticity.”
The girl shook a bewildered head.