Clovis alone maintained an unruffled
cheerfulness.
``Must I keep him always?'' asked Rose-Marie dolefully.
``Not always,'' said Clovis consolingly; ``he can go into
the Navy when he's thirteen.'' Rose-Marie wept afresh.
``Of course,'' added Clovis, ``there may be no end of a
bother about his birth certificate. You'll have to explain
matters to the Admiralty, and they're dreadfully
hidebound.''
It was rather a relief when a breathless nursemaid from
the Villa Charlottenburg over the way came running across
the lawn to claim little Percy, who had slipped out of the
front gate and disappeared like a twinkling from the high
road.
And even then Clovis found it necessary to go in person to
the kitchen to make sure about the asparagus sauce.
WRATISLAV
The Gr
fin's two elder sons had made deplorable
marriages. It was, observed Clovis, a family habit. The
youngest boy, Wratislav, who was the black sheep of a rather
greyish family, had as yet made no marriage at all.
``There is certainly this much to be said for
viciousness,'' said the Grfin, ``it keeps boys out of
mischief.''
``Does it?'' asked the Baroness Sophie, not by way of
questioning the statement, but with a painstaking effort to
talk intelligently.
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