“She’s suffering from a slight cold at the moment, but it’s nothing much,” Stephen answered.

“Ah, I am sorry to hear that. It is to be hoped the dear baby won’t catch it. How is the baby?”

Elizabeth, seated beside her, replied to this question.

“So bonny,” she said. “Cynthia writes that he is learning to walk. Isn’t he forward?”

Lady Ribblemere looked rather concerned, and shook her head so that the plumes in her enormous hat nodded like a row of mandarins.

“I do not think that Cynthia should allow him to walk yet,” she said. “I don’t believe in forcing children. None of mine walked at his age. Dear me, I have not asked after Mr. Ruthven! I hope he is well?”

“Yes, quite, thank you. I believe they are both going to Scotland next month.”

“That will be very nice, I am sure. I used to go to Scotland myself in my husband’s shooting days. Dear me, is that your spaniel I see under the table? So you still have her! Come along, little doggy! Come along!”

Flo retired further under the table.

“How is Sir George?” asked Stephen, catching Elizabeth’s eye as he said it.

“Thank you, he is as well as can be expected. I always say that when you pass the age of fifty it is not to be supposed that you will feel the same as you did at thirty.”

“Er—no,” said Stephen.

Lady Ribblemere’s glance wandered round the room.

“Is that your new book I see on the table?”

“The beginning of it,” Stephen smiled.

“How very interesting! Dear me, I am sure no one would have said when you were a little boy that you would grow into a writer! I think I must really try and read one of your novels. I remember my husband was very pleased with them, but, as you know, I seldom read fiction nowadays. At my age one feels that it is rather waste of time.” She turned to Elizabeth. “It must be very interesting to have a writer for a husband. I expect you read his books together?”

N-no, said Elizabeth. “I am hoping to be allowed to see this one soon.”

“You should read it to her, Stephen. She would be able to help you. And now I must really be going. Tell me, Stephen, is that a new photograph of little Christopher I see on the mantelpiece?”

Stephen handed it to her.

“Cynthia sent it to me a few days ago. He’s growing quite large, isn’t he?”

Lady Ribblemere began to fumble in her lap for her lorgnettes. Through them she stared at the photograph.

“Dear me, yes! He’s very like Mr. Ruthven, don’t you think? Not at all like Cynthia, the dear little man. Yes, that is very interesting. If I remember rightly, you are his godfather?”

“I am. It’s an onerous position.”