Gerald arrived in high spirits, looking even more boyish than usual.
“I’m really afraid to go out with you,” said Bertha. “People will think you’re my son. ‘Dear me, who’d have thought she was forty!’”
“What rot!” He looked at her beautiful gown. Like all really nice women, Bertha was extremely careful to be always well dressed. “By Jove, you are a stunner!”
“My dear child, I’m old enough to be your mother.”
They drove off—to a restaurant which Gerald, boylike, had chosen, because common report pronounced it the dearest in London. Bertha was much amused by the bustle, the glitter of women in diamonds, the busy waiters gliding to and fro, the glare of the electric light: and her eyes rested with approval on the handsome boy in front of her. She could not keep in check the recklessness with which he insisted on ordering the most expensive things; and when they arrived at the opera, she found he had a box.
“Oh, you wretch,” she cried. “You must be utterly ruined.”
“Oh, I’ve got five hundred quid,” he replied, laughing. “I must blue some of it.”
“But why on earth did you get a box?”
“I remembered that you hated any other part of the theatre.”
“But you promised to get cheap seats.”