“Shall I ask papa? He is so cheerful.”
“Do, if you think he will not be bored.”
“My dear, he admires you immensely.”
Sir John Bloomfield was a cheerful old gentleman; he took this world as it treated him, and that was well. He had been married twice. The second lady, Lily’s stepmother, had money, and did not live long. She had taken life seriously, and it killed her. Sir John’s curly hair was white, and also his moustache; he wore his hat with a gentle incline to one side of his head. It gave him a rakish air of joviality; he affected the society of young married women, all except his daughters—he took no interest in either of them. He came to lunch on Sunday, fresh from a stroll with a delightful young woman, after an hour’s contemplation of the smartest bonnets in church, and having listened to the cleverest preacher in London, whose sermons lasted ten minutes only. He was a brilliant man.
They were all in the drawing-room when Mrs. Carden rustled in.
Sir John attached himself to Launa as he objected to elderly ladies, because they were so apt to take it for granted that his opinions were like theirs—middle-aged—and Sir John was quite modern.
At lunch Mrs. Carden sat between Mr. Herbert and Sir John, who devoted himself to Launa. There was another reason to account for his youthful air—he had not the gluttonous enjoyment of food the middle-aged and old acquire.
Mr. Herbert was absorbed in his lunch. Mrs. Carden began to talk. She was hungry, but the waves of Sir John’s anecdotes threatened to engulf her and to reduce her to silence.
She talked of music halls and of morality. In those days both were subjects of conversation and of argument.
“I hate morality,” said Launa. “It means nothing. It is only a name. Maud is so fond of talking of it. Maud is very vulgar.”