"Oh, not at all."

"Thought we'd welcome you back to the old homestead," said Ronny,
beaming.

"What could be sweeter?" said Algy. He produced a cigar-case, and
extracted a formidable torpedo-shaped Havana. He was feeling
delightfully at his ease, and couldn't understand why Freddie had
made such a fuss about meeting this nice old lady. "Don't mind if I
smoke, do you? Air's a bit raw today. Gets into the lungs."

Derek chafed impotently. These unsought allies were making a
difficult situation a thousand times worse. A more acute observer
than young Mr Martyn, he noted the tight lines about his mother's
mouth and knew them for the danger-signal they were. Endeavoring to
distract her with light conversation, he selected a subject which was
a little unfortunate.

"What sort of crossing did you have, mother?"

Lady Underhill winced. A current of air had sent the perfume of
Algy's cigar playing about her nostrils. She closed her eyes, and her
face turned a shade paler. Freddie, observing this, felt quite sorry
for the poor old thing. She was a pest and a pot of poison, of
course, but all the same, he reflected charitably, it was a shame
that she should look so green about the gills. He came to the
conclusion that she must be hungry. The thing to do was to take her
mind off it till she could be conducted to a restaurant and dumped
down in front of a bowl of soup.