“Ducky, it does sound like a poor relation touching the Family Hope; but I love you anyway and you know it.”
He laughed, hung up, and went his way. Only the florists at the great hotels remained open for business. At one of these he was properly robbed, but the flowers that he sent to Rosalind were magnificent.
He joined half a dozen men of his own world at the Province Club and made one of a group at dinner.
Conversation was the sort of big-town-small-talk passing current as conversation at the majority of such clubs—Wall Street tattle, social prattle, golfing week-ends, summer plans.
Somebody—Wilkes Bruce—remarked to Annan that his aunt was in town.
The prospect of seeing her cheered him, stirring up that ever latent perverse humour of his, with the prospect of an acrimonious exchange of civilities.
Not that Mrs. Magnelius Grandcourt ever received her nephew willingly; but twice every year matters concerning the estate had to be discussed with him personally.
So Annan knew that before she took herself elsewhere a summons to the presence would arrive for him at No. 3 Governor’s Place.
She possessed a horrible house in town—a caricature of a French château—closed most of the year.
In the depths of that dim and over-upholstered stronghold these semi-annual audiences were held. They resembled courts of justice, his aunt sitting, and he the malefactor on parole, reporting at intervals according to law. And he looked forward to these conferences with malicious amusement, if his aunt did not.