“Can’t you manage your own nephew?”
“No, I can’t, confound it! Told me this morning he wanted to be an architect. An architect!” He spoke as though an architect were something that crawled. “Imagine a Brabazon of Lorne turning architect!”
“Well, why not?” placidly. “It’s better than being nothing but a gambler—like poor Dick. Tony always did love making plans. Don’t you remember, when he was about eight, he made a drawing of heaven, with seating accommodation for the angels—cherubim and seraphim, and so on—in tiers? The general effect was rather like a plan of the Albert Hall”—smiling reminiscently. “Seriously, though, Philip, if the boy wants work, in the name of common sense, let him have it.”
“There’s plenty of work for him at Lorne”—stubbornly. “Let him learn to manage the property. That’s what I want—and what I’ll have. God bless my soul! What have I brought the boy up for? To be a comfort in my old age, of course, and a credit to the name. Architect be hanged!”
As he spoke there came the sound of footsteps in the hall outside—light, buoyant steps—and Lady Susan’s face brightened.
“That will be Ann,” she said. Adding quickly, as though to conclude the subject they had been discussing: “I warn you, Philip, you’re driving the boy on too tight a rein.”
Sir Philip greeted Ann good-humouredly. In spite of the fact that she showed no disposition to fall in with his wishes and marry Tony, he was extremely fond of her. She was one of the few people who had never been afraid of him. She even contradicted him flatly at times, and, like most autocrats, he found her attitude a refreshing change from that of the majority of people with whom he came in contact.
“Seen Tony in the town?” he demanded. It was evident the boy was hardly ever out of his thoughts.
“Yes. We’ve just been having tea together.”
Sir Philip nodded approvingly.