“I think your grandmother has taken leave of her senses,” she said. “First Connie and now this. You can’t possibly go to Cannes alone.”
“Mother!” Judy exclaimed. “Please don’t treat me as though I were a child or an imbecile. You know perfectly well I can go—and must go. If you and father won’t help me, Claire will pay my expenses. I know she’ll offer to, anyway.”
“You had better speak to your father,” said Millie with chilling disapproval.
It was undoubtedly one of Mr. Pendleton’s best days. He looked almost indulgently at his handsome, excited daughter, and said:
“Well, Judith, I can see you’re bent on going. I suppose you’ll find friends there. You might arrange to come back with some of them. My only fear is that the old man will die, and that would be very awkward for you. They make a considerable to-do in France, when people die. Still, I suppose if your grandmother wants it …”
Considerably later, she found herself alone with Chip again. He had been danced with twice by Helen, and felt that he had earned a respite.
“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” he asked, on hearing the news.
“I suppose that depends on Mr. de Lisle.”
“Is he Stephen de Lisle? The man who was … what was it? … Home Secretary, I think. A good many years ago. And I seem to remember some tremendous quarrel, with the then Prime Minister. A man with a very fine head. I remember his pictures quite well.”
“That’s Old Stephen. He was a great, great friend of mine when I was seven, and I haven’t seen him since. But he’s always been in love with Madame Claire—since before she married my grandfather. People of their generation did that sort of thing—loved for a lifetime. I wonder why nobody does now?”