I do not remember that we said anything more until we reached Daphne's. Then, as he helped me out, I said:
"How old is Uncle Egbert?"
"Eighty-six," he replied grimly, and went away without shaking hands.
Well, to go back to Poppy, for of course it is her story I am telling, not mine. Mother came over soon after that and I went with her to Mentone for two months. Then she went back to America from Genoa, and I went back to London. Mother is the sweetest person in the world, and I adore her, but she represents the old-fashioned woman, and of course I stand for the advanced. For instance, she was much more interested in Basil Ward than in the Cause, and she absolutely disapproved of Poppy's stand about the income tax.
"I don't care to discuss the Cause," she said to me. "We have trouble enough now with only the men voting. Why should we double our anxieties?"
"That's silly, mother," I retorted. "Because one baby is a trouble and naughty sometimes, should one have only one child?"
Basil met me at Charing Cross, and I knew there was something up by the very way his stick hung to his arm.
"How's everything?" I asked, when he had called a cab and settled me in it. "How nice and sooty it is, after the Riviera!"
"Filthy hole!" said Basil grumpily. "Haven't had a decent day since you left."
(This was remarkable, because the papers had all said the weather in London was wonderful for that time of year.)