Ann’s face clouded. She devoutly wished that Sir Philip would allow his nephew to take up some profession—never mind which, so long as it interested him and gave him definite occupation. To keep him idling about between Lorne and the Brabazon town house in Audley Square was the worst thing in the world for him. Privately she determined to approach her godfather on the subject at the very next opportunity, though she could make a very good, guess at the reason for his refusal. It was a purely selfish one. He liked to have the boy with him. Bully him and browbeat him as he might, Tony was in reality the apple of the old man’s eye—the one thing in the whole world for which he cared.
There would be nothing gained, however, by letting Tony know her thoughts, so she answered him with trenchant disapproval.
“It’s not tosh. After all, your first duty is to Lorne and to the tenants. A good landlord is quite as useful a member of society as a good architect.”
“Oh, if I were doing the actual managing, it would be a different thing,” acknowledged Tony. “But I don’t. He decides everything and gives all the orders—without consulting me. I just have to see that what he orders is carried out, and trot about with him, and do the noble young heir stunt for the benefit of the tenants on my birthday. It’s absolutely sickening!”—savagely.
“Well, don’t quarrel with your bread-and-butter,” advised Ann. “Or with Sir Philip. He’s not a bad sort in his way.”
“Oh, isn’t he?”—grimly. “You try living with him! Thank the powers that be, I shall get a ‘day off’ to-morrow. He’s going over to Evian by the midday boat. The St. Keliers—blessed be their name!—have asked him to dine with them—to meet some exiled Russian princess or other.”
“Lady Susan is going, too. She’s staying the night there. Is Sir Philip?”
“Yes. There’s no getting back the same night. This is topping, Ann.” Tony’s face had brightened considerably. “Suppose you and I go up to the Dents de Loup for the afternoon, and then have a festive little dinner at the Gloria. Will you? Don’t have an attack of common sense and say ‘no’!”
His eyes entreated her gaily. They were extremely charming eyes, of some subtly blended colour that was neither slate nor violet, but partook a little of both, and shaded by absurdly long lashes which gave them an almost womanish softness. A certain shrewd old duchess, who knew her world, had once been heard to observe that Tony Brabazon’s eyes would get him in and out of trouble as long as he lived.
Ann smiled.