Patch burst out laughing and Mike, too little to know why, broke into a charming baby’s laugh to keep her company.
“It’s a hat,” said Lady Charles and put it on the top of her head.
“It’s a tea-cosy,” said Frid. “How common of Auntie Kit.”
Nanny came in. She was the quintessence of all nannies, opinionated, faithful, illogical, exasperating and admirable. She stood just inside the door and said:
“Good evening, m’lady. Patricia, Michael. Come along.”
“Oh Nanny,” said Patch and Mike. “It’s not time. Oh Nanny!”
Lady Charles said: “Look what Lady Katherine has sent me, Nanny. It’s a hat.”
“It’s a hot-water-bottle cover, m’lady,” said Nanny. “Patricia and Michael, say good night and come along.”
II
It was the first of many visits. Roberta spent the winter holidays at Deepacres and when the long summer holidays came she was there again. The affections of an only child of fourteen are as concentrated as they are vehement. All her life Roberta was to put her emotional eggs in one basket. At fourteen, with appalling simplicity, she gave her heart to the Lampreys. It was, however, not merely an attachment of adolescence. She never grew out of it, and though, when they met again after a long interval, she could look at them with detachment, she was unable to feel detached. She wanted no other friends. Their grandeur, and in their queer way the Lampreys were very grand for New Zealand, had little to do with their attraction for Roberta. If the crash that was so often averted had ever fallen upon them they would have carried their glamour into some tumbledown house in England or New Zealand, and Roberta would still have adored them.