Christopher formed the topic of conversation until Elizabeth rose to go. Then Stephen handed him back to his mother, and asked that he might be allowed to drive Elizabeth home in his car.

“Oh, but won’t that be taking you out of your way?” she protested.

“No, rather not. Lord, the kid’s going to howl!”

“Not at all,” said Cynthia, hastily distracting Christopher’s attention. “Don’t, Cherub, I implore you!

Your papa’ll be home soon and you know he’s far nicer than Stephen.”

Christopher appeared to consider this gravely, and evidently came to the conclusion that there was something in it, for he abandoned his intention of roaring, and instead smiled seraphically.

Elizabeth shook hands with Cynthia, and hoped that she would come to tea with her one day next week. Then Stephen took her out and tucked her into his shining car.

The drive home was all too short; since she had seen Stephen with Christopher Elizabeth thought him nicer than ever, besides it was most thrilling to be on such intimate terms with so famous a novelist.

As luck would have it, Lawrence was just letting himself into the house when Stephen’s car pulled up outside. He turned at once, and when he saw Elizabeth, came down the steps again.

“Well, well, so here you are!” he said, and looked inquiringly at Stephen.

“Yes, here I am. This is Mr. Ramsay—my father.”

“That’s a very well-known name,” said Lawrence, shaking Stephen warmly by the hand. “You see in me a humble admirer. Come in for a few minutes, won’t you?”

“Thanks, sir. I’d like to if I may. Can you extricate yourself, Miss Arden?”

“Yes, just,” Elizabeth answered, emerging from her wrappings. She got out of the car, and they waited for Lawrence to open the front-door.

Aunt Anne was in the drawing-room, and she welcomed Stephen with rather less hostility than was usually apparent in her manner when a man was introduced to her.

Stephen exerted himself to please both her and Lawrence; with both he was successful. Lawrence talked very learnedly about books, and since he was evidently determined to discuss Stephen’s latest novel, Stephen gave way after the very shortest of struggles and managed to look as though he were enjoying the discussion.

“A very skilful piece of work,” Lawrence said warmly. “Now tell me, had you anyone in mind when you created ‘Francis’?”

“Oh, just a type!” Stephen answered evasively.

“Ah, yes, I suppose so. And that bit about ‘Patricia’ and ‘Colonel Longley’—excellent!”

“Tm glad you liked the book, sir,” was all Stephen could think of to say. He contrived to change the subject to motor-cars, and immediately Lawrence launched forth into technicalities.

Undoubtedly Stephen was a success.

Chapter Six