The Vision of Desire | Page 7

selfish one. He liked to have the boy with him. Bully
him and browbeat him as he might, Tony was in reality the apple of the
old man's eye--the one thing in the whole world for which he cared.
There would be nothing gained, however, by letting Tony know her
thoughts, so she answered him with trenchant disapproval.
"It's not tosh. After all, your first duty is to Lorne and to the tenants. A
good landlord is quite as useful a member of society as a good
architect."
"Oh, if I were doing the actual managing, it would be a different thing,"
acknowledged Tony. "But I don't. He decides everything and gives all
the orders--without consulting me. I just have to see that what he orders
is carried out, and trot about with him, and do the noble young heir
stunt for the benefit of the tenants on my birthday. It's absolutely
sickening!"--savagely.
"Well, don't quarrel with your bread-and-butter," advised Ann. "Or
with Sir Philip. He's not a bad sort in his way."

"Oh, isn't he?"--grimly. "You try living with him! Thank the powers
that be, I shall get a 'day off' to-morrow. He's going over to Evian by
the midday boat. The St. Keliers--blessed be their name!--have asked
him to dine with them--to meet some exiled Russian princess or other."
"Lady Susan is going, too. She's staying the night there. Is Sir Philip?"
"Yes. There's no getting back the same night. This is topping, Ann."
Tony's face had brightened considerably. "Suppose you and I go up to
the Dents de Loup for the afternoon, and then have a festive little
dinner at the Gloria. Will you? Don't have an attack of common sense
and say 'no'!"
His eyes entreated her gaily. They were extremely charming eyes, of
some subtly blended colour that was neither slate nor violet, but
partook a little of both, and shaded by absurdly long lashes which gave
them an almost womanish softness. A certain shrewd old duchess, who
knew her world, had once been heard to observe that Tony Brabazon's
eyes would get him in and out of trouble as long as he lived.
Ann smiled.
"That's quite a brain-wave, Tony," she replied. "I won't say no. And if
you're very good we'll go down to the Kursaal afterwards, and I'll let
you have a little innocent flutter at the tables." Ann had no belief in the
use of too severe a curb. She felt quite sure that if Tony's gambling
propensities were bottled up too tightly, they would only break out
more strongly later on--when he might chance to be in a part of the
world where he could come to bigger grief financially than was
possible at Montricheux. She glanced down at the watch on her wrist
and, seeing that the time had slipped by more quickly than she
imagined, proceeded to gather up her gloves. "I think it's time I went
back to Villa Mon Rêve, now," she said tentatively, fearing a burst of
opposition.
But, having got his own way over the arrangements for the morrow,
Tony consented to be amenable for once. Together they took their way
up the pleasant street and at the gates of the villa he made his farewells.

"I shall drop into the club for a rubber, I think," he vouchsafed, "before
going home like a good little boy."
"Don't play high," cautioned Ann good-humouredly.
She could detect the underlying note of resentment in his voice, and she
entered the house meditating thoughtfully upon the amazing
short-sightedness evinced by elderly gentlemen in regard to the
upbringing of their heirs.
CHAPTER II
THE BRABAZONS OF LORNE
"Ann's the best pal Tony could possibly have, so, for goodness' sake, be
content with that and don't get addling your brains by trying to marry
her off to him. Match-making isn't a man's job. A female child of
twelve could beat the cleverest man that's hatched at the game."
Lady Susan Hallett fired off her remarks, as was her wont, with the
vigour and precision of a machine-gun. There was always a delightful
definiteness both about her ideas and the expression of them.
The man she addressed was standing with his back to the open French
window of the pretty salon, angrily oblivious of the blue waters of Lac
Léman which lapped placidly against the stone edges of the quai below.
He was a tall, fierce-looking old man, with choleric blue eyes and an
aristocratic beak of a nose that jutted out above a bristling grey
moustache. A single eyeglass dangled from a broad, black ribbon round
his neck. "One of the old school" was written all over him--one of the
old, autocratic school which believed that "a man should be master in
his own house, b'gad!" By which--though he would never