The Vision of Desire | Page 9

demanded. It was evident the boy was hardly ever out of his thoughts.
"Yes. We've just been having tea together."
Sir Philip nodded approvingly.
"Excellent, excellent. Keep him out of mischief, like a good girl."
Ann laughed, a shade scornfully, but vouchsafed no answer, and soon afterwards Sir Philip took his departure.
"The twelve-thirty steamer to-morrow, then, Susan," he said as he shook hands. "I'll call for you in the car on my way to the d��barcad��re."
When he had gone Lady Susan and Ann exchanged glances.
"I've been telling him he drives Tony on too tight a rein," said the former, answering the unspoken question in the girl's eyes.
"It's absurd of him," declared Ann indignantly. "He tries to keep him tied to his apron-strings as if he were a child. And he's not! He's a man. He's been through that beastly war. Probably he knows heaps more about life--the real things of life--than Sir Philip himself, who wants to dictate everything he may or may not do."
"Probably he does. And that's just the trouble. When you get a terribly experienced younger generation and a hide-bound older one there are liable to be fireworks."
"All I can say is that if Sir Philip won't let him have a little more freedom, he'll drive Tony just the way he doesn't want him to go."
Lady Susan's keen glance scrutinised the girl's troubled face.
"You can't help it, you know," she remarked briefly.
"That's just it," answered Ann uncertainly. "I sometimes wonder if I could--ought to--" She broke off, leaving her sentence unfinished.
Lady Susan, apparently not noticing her embarrassment, gathered up her belongings preparatory to leaving the room.
"Marrying to reform a rake never pays," she said in level tones. "It's like rolling a stone uphill."
"But Tony isn't a rake!" protested Ann, flushing quickly. "There's any amount of good in him, and he might--might steady down if he were married."
"Let him steady down before marriage, not after"--grimly. "A woman may throw her whole life's happiness into the scales and still fail to turn the balance. Without love--the love that can forgive seventy times seven and then not be tired--she'll certainly fail. And you don't love Tony."
It was an assertion rather than a question, yet Ann felt that Lady Susan was waiting for an answer.
"N-no," she acknowledged at last. "But I feel as though he belongs to me in a way. You see, Virginia 'left' him to me."
"You're not called upon to marry a legacy," retorted Lady Susan.
Ann smiled.
"No, I suppose not." She was silent a moment. "I wish Sir Philip didn't lead him such a life. It's more than any man could be expected to stand."
Lady Susan paused in the doorway.
"Well, my dear, don't vex your soul too much about it all. However badly people mismanage our affairs for us, things have a wonderful way of working out all right in the long run."
Left alone, Ann strolled out on to the balcony which overlooked the lake, and, leaning her arms on the balustrade, yielded to the current of her thoughts. Notwithstanding Lady Susan's cheery optimism, she was considerably worried about Tony. She could see so exactly what it was that fretted him--this eternal dancing attendance on Sir Philip, who insisted on the boy's accompanying him wherever he went, and she felt a sudden angry contempt for the selfishness of old age which could so obstinately bind eager, straining youth to its chariot wheels. It seemed to her that the older generation frequently fell very far short of its responsibility towards the younger.
With a flash of bitterness she reflected that her own father had failed in his duty to the next generation almost as signally as old Sir Philip, although in a totally different manner. Archibald Lovell had indeed been curiously devoid of any sense of paternal responsibility. Connoisseur and collector of old porcelain, he had lived a dreamy, dilettante existence, absorbed in his collection and paying little or no heed to the comings and goings of his two children, Ann and her brother Robin. And less heed still to their ultimate welfare. He neglected his estate from every point of view, except the one of raising mortgages upon it so that he might have the wherewithal to add to his store of ceramic treasures. He lived luxuriously, employing a high-priced chef and soft-footed, well-trained servants to see to his comfort, because anything short of perfection grated on his artistic sensibilities. And when an intrusive influenza germ put a sudden end to his entirely egotistical activities, his son and daughter found themselves left with only a few hundred pounds between them. Lovell Court was perforce sold at once to pay off the mortgages, and to meet the many other big outstanding debts the contents of the house had to be dispersed without reserve. The collection of old porcelain to which Archibald Lovell had sacrificed most