"
"We're nomadic, father," Drusilla asserted, "and migratory. We've always
been so. It's because we're Saxons and Angles and Celts and Normans,
and--"
"Saxon and Norman and Dane are we," Mrs. Temple quoted, gently.
"They've always been fidgeting about the world, from one country to
another," Drusilla continued, "and we've inherited the taste. If we
hadn't, our ancestors would never have crossed the Atlantic, in the
first place. And now that we've got here, and can't go any farther in
this direction, we're on the jump to get back again. That's all there is
to it. It's just in the blood. Isn't it, Peter? Isn't it, Cousin Henry?"
Drusilla had a way of appealing to whatever men were present, as though
her statements lacked something till they had received masculine
corroboration.
"All the same, I wish you could have managed the thing without giving
offence to Aunt Vic."
The words were Henry Guion's first since sitting down to table.
"I couldn't help it, papa. I didn't _give_ Aunt Vic offence; she took
it."
"She's always been so fond of you--"
"I'm fond of _her_. She's an old darling. And yet I couldn't let her
marry me off to a Frenchman, in the French way, when I'd made up my mind
to--to do something else.
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