“What does Frid mean?” asked Michael.
“Nothing,” said Frid. “But Mummy, 24 Brummell Street! Honestly!”
“My poor baby, I know. But attend to me. Let me finish. My cunning tells me that we can improve Brummell Street. Sell the most valuable of Aunt V.’s monsters—”
“Good heavens, Immy,” Lord Charles interrupted, “what about V.? I mean, haven’t we got V. on our hands? I mean she’s mad.”
“We must keep our heads about that,” said Charlot capably. “Dr. Kantripp will help. As soon as she has given her evidence—”
“But will she give evidence?” Henry asked. “She’d cut a pretty queer figure in the witness-box talking about soporific spells.”
“Do let’s keep to the point,” said his mother. “We were in Brummell Street. Now with what we save on rent we shall be able to make a few meagre alterations to the Brummell Street house. Paint the walls and change the curtains and get at least enough bathrooms for ordinary cleanliness. We could cover the worst of the chairs that we don’t sell with something dirt cheap but amusing.”
“French chintz?” suggested Frid, taking fire.
“Yes, I mean something that will simply tide us over our bad times. We’ll consult a clever decorator. What I do want to hammer into your heads,” said Charlot, “is that we are poor. Poor, poor, poor.”
Henry, who had been watching Roberta, burst out laughing. Charlot gazed at him with an air of injury.