"Just so. I told you I met them—in April, when you were abroad—at the Hunt Ball. But—well, really, I've met them several times since. The Deacons know them." The slight consciousness in the voice did not escape his mother. "You know you've never called on them. Mother, you are disgraceful about calling! Well, I met them again this afternoon, just the other side of Whitebeck. They were in a pony-carriage, and I was in the motor. It's a jolly afternoon, and they didn't seem to have anything particular to do, so I just asked them to come on here, and have tea, and we'd show them the place."
"All right, dear. I'll bear up. Do you think they'll come?"
"Well, I don't know," said her son dubiously. "You see—I think Miss
Penfold thought you ought to have called on them before they came here!
But Mrs. Penfold's a nice old thing—she said they'd come."
"Well, there's plenty of tea, and I'll go and call if you want me to."
"How many years?" laughed Tatham. "I remember somebody you took eight years to call on, and when you got there you'd forgotten their names."
"Pure invention. Never mind, sit down and have your tea. How many daughters?"
"How many Miss Penfolds? Well, there are two, and I danced with them both. But"—the young man shook his head slowly—"I haven't got any use for the elder one."
"Plain?"
"Not at all—rather pretty. But she talks philosophy and stuff. Not my sort."
"And the younger one doesn't talk philosophy?"