‘I suppose you think I can’t manage it myself,’ had complained Captain Roding sarcastically. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. That’s my point. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. . I am going up to dine with my sister. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense. She blushed prettily, and in a moment regained command of her tongue. Suddenly he understood what had happened.
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