He entered upon a long story. Some picture or the other was shaping splendidly. His uncle had taken Etta and himself to lunch at the Savoy.
“Said he was thinking of going to Dinard for August. Rum place for him to go, isn’t it?”
Clementina repressed manifestation of interest in the announcement. But it set her pulses throbbing.
“I suppose he can go where he likes, can’t he?” she snapped. “What kind of a lunch did you have?”
Tommy ran through the menu. It was his own selection. He had given the dear old chap some hints in gastronomy. It was wonderful how little he knew of such essential things. Seemed to have set his heart on giving them pheasant. In July. After that they had gone to see the New Futurists. His uncle seemed to know all about them. Wonderful work; but they were all erring after false gods. He thanked heaven he had her, Clementina, to keep him orthodox. It was all absinthe and morphia. He rattled on. Clementina, leaning far back in her chair, watched the curls of cigarette smoke with shining eyes and a Leonardesque smile lurking at the corners of her lips.
“Why, Clementina!” he cried, with sudden indignation. “You’re paying not the slightest attention to me.”
“Never mind, Tommy,” she said. “You go on talking. It helps me to think. I’m going to have a devil of a time—the time of my life!”
“What in the world are you going to do?”
“Never mind, Tommy. Never mind. Oh, what a fool I was not to think of it before!”