“That’s the high kick of fashion,” said Ravenscar.

“It makes you look for all the world like a postilion.”

“It’s meant to.”

“And you know very well that you do not care a snap for the fashion! I beg you will not teach Adrian to make such a vulgar spectacle of himself!”

Mr Ravenscar raised his brows. “I’m not likely to put myself to so much trouble,” he said.

This assurance did nothing to mollify his aunt. She said severely that the fashion of waiting upon ladies in garments fit only for Newmarket was not one which she had until this day encountered.

“I’ve this instant ridden into town,” said Mr Ravenscar, with an indifference which robbed his explanation of all semblance of apology. “I thought you wanted to see me.”

“I have been wanting to see you these five days and more. Where in the world have you been, tiresome creature? I drove round to Grosvenor Square, only to find the house shut up, and the knocker off the door.”

“I’ve been down at Chamfreys.”

“Oh, indeed! Well, I’m sure I hope you found your Mama in good health—not but what it’s the height of absurdity to call Mrs Ravenscar your mother, for she’s no such thing, and of all the foolish—”

“I don’t,” said Ravenscar briefly.

“Well, I hope you found her in good health,” repeated Lady Mablethorpe, a trifle disconcerted.

“I didn’t find her at all. She is at Tunbridge Wells, with Arabella.”

At the mention of her niece, Lady Mablethorpe’s eyes brightened. “The dear child!” she said. “And how is she, Max?”

The thought of his young half-sister appeared to afford Mr Ravenscar no gratification. “She’s a devilish nuisance,” he replied.

A shade of uneasiness crossed her ladyship’s plump countenance. “Oh, indeed? Of course, she is very young, and I daresay Mrs Ravenscar indulges her more than she should. But—”