When the bill came, Bobby said, ‘You can pay that, darling, if you’d like to. I don’t see why I shouldn’t trade on my status as a schoolboy for as long as I possibly can. All too soon I shall be the one to pay, and that will last to the end of my life, worse luck.’
‘When are you leaving Eton for good?’
‘I shall trail away clasping (we hope) my little leaving book and draped in my tiny Old Etonian tie at the end of the summer half, unless, of course, the beaks should happen to find out before then that you are my dentist, darling. Such bad teeth. But I don’t expect they will, I’m hardly ever unlucky.’
‘Is it settled what you’re going to do after that?’
‘Well, Mother keeps on droning about Sandhurst, but I fully intend to go to Oxford, and I usually get my own way with the old girl in the end, you know, so I expect it will be all right.’
Presently they went for a walk. It was a beautiful day, sunny and windy; little golden leaves like small coins, earnest of a treasury to come, blew about the school yard; one of those days at Eton when Windsor Castle has all the appearance of the better type of Victorian water-colour painting, clean, clear and romantic. Specimens of the British aristocrat in embryo were to be seen on every hand running, or lounging about the place in and out of ‘change’. They were hideous, pathetic little boys for the most part, with one feature, whether nose, ears, chin, Adam’s apple or eyebrows outstripping its fellows which, having apparently forgotten how to grow, were overshadowed quite by their monstrous neighbour. They all stared hard at Amabelle, whose beauty was of the obvious, mature description that children always admire, and looked enviously at Bobby. He was considered a bit of a masher by the younger ones; his own contemporaries, although for the most part quite fond of him, merely thought him an extremely funny joke.
As they strolled among those playing-fields whose connexion with the Battle of Waterloo had been cause for so much facetious comment, Amabelle said:
‘How about this holiday tutor you mentioned in your last letter – has your mother engaged one yet, d’you think?’
‘Not yet, thank goodness,’ said Bobby sulkily. ‘It is a bit hard, you know. I saw my sister, Philadelphia, last Sunday, she came over with darling Aunt Loudie, and she says that Mother is still quite determined to have one who will “get me out of doors”. This out of doors idea is a perfect fetish with Mamma; she quite honestly believes that there is something wrong about being under a roof unless you have to be for purposes of eating or sleeping. Last summer hols were unbelievably horrible. I was made to be out of doors from dawn till dark, and then Mother and Uncle Ernest used quite often to drag me out after dinner and make me lay traps for crayfish. Cruel and boring it was.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised if that’s why you have such a lovely complexion; you ought to be very glad you’re not like all these spotty little wretches.’
‘I know,’ said Bobby with alluring archness. ‘But you see, I was born with that, anyhow, it’s one of my natural attributes. But do say you think this tutor business is the last straw; it’s such a ghastly idea.’
‘Yes, in a way. But supposing it was somebody you liked very much yourself?’
‘My dear, have you met many tutors?’
‘Somebody you knew already – Paul Fotheringay, for instance.’
‘Of course that would be heaven. But I can’t quite imagine it happening, can you?’
Amabelle then expounded her plot.
When she had finished speaking Bobby cried in tones of high delight: ‘It’s a divine idea! You mean that Paul shall come to Compton Bobbin disguised as my tutor so that he can read up the old girl’s journal without Mother knowing. Oh, yes, it’s there all right, neatly bound in red morocco – it takes up a whole shelf of the library. I rather think there are some bags full of letters, too. How marvellous you are to think of it, darling. Oh, what heavenly fun it will be!’ and Bobby vaulted over some fairly low railings and back, casting off for a moment his mask of elderly roué and slipping on that of a tiny-child-at-its-first-pantomime, another role greatly favoured by this unnatural boy. ‘Only it’s too awful to think you won’t be there, joining in the riot.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ said Amabelle darkly.
‘You’re not coming too by any chance, disguised as my nanny?’
If Amabelle flinched inwardly at this remark she showed no signs of it and merely said, ‘But why the disguise? As a matter of fact though I shall be in your neighbourhood then, because I’ve taken a little house for Christmas time which can’t be very far from you – Mulberrie Farm.’
‘Oh, it’s not true! You haven’t taken Mulberrie Farm, have you? It’s only two miles from us. You are an angel, Amabelle. I say, though, have you seen it?’
‘No, why? Is it horrible?’
‘No, no,’ said Bobby hastily, ‘quite attractive. Very comfortable and all that. Tee-hee, though, this will ginger up the hols for me top-hole, it will. Do you really think you can persuade m’tutor to recommend Paul to Mother?’
Bobby’s house-master was Amabelle’s first cousin and one of her greatest friends.
‘I can’t see why not,’ said Amabelle, ‘because I honestly do think that Paul will have a very good influence on you.’
‘Personally I can’t imagine Paul having influence over man, woman or child.’
‘Anyhow, it can do no harm and may do good, as Geoffrey said when he joined the Embassy Club. And as we are here I think I might as well go in and see Maurice about it now, so good-bye, darling, try to be
