The world’s governess, who was older than Sir Seymour, though not a soul knew it, looked more severe.
“His age would be in every way suitable to Adele Sellingworth’s,” he said firmly.
“Oh, but—”
“Go on!”
“I can’t see an old man like Sir Seymour as her husband. Oh, no! It wouldn’t do. She would never marry such an old man. I am certain of that.”
Braybrooke pinched his lips together and felt for his beard.
“I hope,” he said, lifting and lowering his bushy eyebrows, “I hope, at any rate, she will never be so foolish as to marry a man who is what is called young. That would be a terrible mistake, both for her and for him. Now I really must be going. I am dining to-night rather early with—oh, by the way, it is with one of your chiefs—Eric Learington. A good fellow—a good fellow! We are going to some music afterwards at Queen’s Hall. Good-bye. I’m very glad you realize Adela Sellingworth’s great distinction and charm. But—” He paused, as if considering something carefully; then he added:
“But don’t forget that she and Seymour Portman would be perfectly suitable to one another. She is a delightful creature, but she is no longer a young woman. But I need not tell you that.”
And having thus done the needless thing he went away, walking with a certain unwonted self-consciousness which had its source solely in dry Martinis.