Eliot glanced up.
“No. Are you? You do most nights, don’t you?” He recollected having seen Tony’s flushed, eager face opposite him at one or other of the tables on a good many occasions.
“No. Feel off it to-night. Besides”—with a frown—“I’ve dropped an awful lot of money at it lately. May I sit down?” he added, laying his hand on the back of a chair.
Coventry put down his newspaper. It was obvious the boy wanted to talk, to unburden himself of something. Better let him get it over and have done with it, he reflected. A word of encouragement and the whole story came out. Tony, it appeared, was feeling hipped. The Nevilles were leaving Mentone, a new doctor who had been consulted having advised a more bracing climate for Lady Doreen, and simultaneously Sir Philip had announced his decision to return to London—a combination of events which had succeeded in reducing Tony to unplumbed depths of despondency.
“It’s rather a break-up, you see,” he explained, “after nearly three months here together. We made a topping foursome”—ingenuously. “And now it’s all over, I feel rather like a kid going back to school after the holidays.”
Eliot found himself sympathising against his will. It was as difficult to maintain an inimical attitude towards Tony as to resist the spontaneous advances of a confiding puppy.
“Couldn’t you persuade your uncle that a more bracing climate might suit him, too?” suggested Eliot, with a faint smile.
Tony flashed him a quick glance from under his long lashes—half laughing, half deprecating.
“That’s just it,” he admitted frankly. “I can’t budge him. Doreen and I are—well, half engaged, you know—”
“Half-engaged?” asked Eliot, lifting his brows.