“Delighted,” said Algy with old-world courtesy.
Lady Underhill regarded this mob-scene with an eye of ice.
“How do you do?” she said. “Have you come to meet somebody?”
“I-er-we-er-why-er—” This woman always made Freddie feel as if he were being disembowelled by some clumsy amateur. He wished that he had defied the dictates of his better nature and remained in his snug rooms at the Albany, allowing Derek to go through this business by himself. “I-er-we-er-came to meet you, don’t you know!”
“Indeed! That was very kind of you!”
“Oh, not at all.”
“Thought we’d welcome you back to the old homestead,” said Ronny, beaming.
“What could be sweeter?” said Algy. He produced a cigar-case, and extracted a formidable torpedo-shaped Havana. He was feeling delightfully at his ease, and couldn’t understand why Freddie had made such a fuss about meeting this nice old lady. “Don’t mind if I smoke, do you? Air’s a bit raw today. Gets into the lungs.”
Derek chafed impotently. These unsought allies were making a difficult situation a thousand times worse. A more acute observer than young Mr Martyn, he noted the tight lines about his mother’s mouth and knew them for the danger-signal they were. Endeavoring to distract her with light conversation, he selected a subject which was a little unfortunate.
“What sort of crossing did you have, mother?”