would be nicer for her to be launched by one of her own people. An advantage for her and an advantage for us.”
“How much do you think you would get her to cough up?” asked Lenox.
Her mother looked at her reproachfully and murmured:
“We should have to come to some financial arrangement, of course. What with one thing and another—the, War—your poor father—”
“And Chubby now,” said Lenox. “He is an expensive luxury if you like.”
“She was a nice girl as I remember her,” murmured Lady Tamplin, pursuing her own line of thought—“quiet, never wanted to shove herself forward, not a beauty, and never a man-hunter.”
“She will leave Chubby alone, then?” said Lenox.
Lady Tamplin looked at her in protest. “Chubby would never—” she began.
“No,” said Lenox, “I don’t believe he would; he knows a jolly sight too well which way his bread is buttered.”
“Darling,” said Lady Tamplin, “you have such a coarse way of putting things.”
“Sorry,” said Lenox.
Lady Tamplin gathered up the Daily Mail and her negligee, a vanity bag, and various odd letters.
“I shall write to dear Katherine at once,” she said, “and remind her of the dear old days at Edgeworth.”
She went into the house, a light of purpose shining in her eyes.