Disapproval was to
her what neuralgia and fancy needlework are to many other
women. She disapproved of early morning tea and auction
bridge, of ski-ing and the two-step, of the Russian ballet
and the Chelsea Arts Club ball, of the French policy in
Morocco and the British policy everywhere. It was not that
she was particularly strict or narrow in her views of life,
but she had been the eldest sister of a large family of
self-indulgent children, and her particular form of
indulgence had consisted in openly disapproving of the
foibles of the others. Unfortunately the hobby had grown up
with her. As she was rich, influential, and very, very
kind, most people were content to count their early tea as
well lost on her behalf. Still, the necessity for hurriedly
dropping the discussion of an enthralling topic, and
suppressing all mention of it during her presence on the
scene, was an affliction at a moment like the present, when
time was slipping away and indecision was the prevailing
note.
After a lunch-time of rather strangled and uneasy
conversation, Clovis managed to get most of the party
together at the further end of the kitchen gardens, on the
pretext of admiring the Himalayan pheasants.
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