plate, don't tease me. I'm really quite serious.
I'm not teasing you, Laura.
You are too absurd, Campaspe. Besides, I don't think she'd want to listen to Basil. He's much too young for her. She prefers men of forty, men of the world. She was completely fascinated by Paul Moody the other day. I really don't like to have him come here any more.
What are her ideas?
It's not one thing. It's just everything she says and thinks. Indeed, I'm certain she thinks even worse things than she says. You know how careful I've always been. I've engaged the best governesses, the very best. Miss Pinchon is particularly to be relied upon. Eugenia, Laura concluded sadly, isn't a bit like Consuelo.
For the moment Campaspe gave up any idea of proceeding further along this direct line; she opened, rather, an oblique attack. Speaking of Paul, she began, I'm worried about him. I've never really worried about him before because he has always managed somehow to light on his feet, no matter how many storeys high the window from which he was tossed, but Vera seems too much for him.
I never considered that marriage proper, Laura announced severely. She's much older than he is—over twice his age, I should think—and it's perfectly obvious that he married her for her money. I knew it would turn out badly. It was certain to.
