'I will indeed.'
'Madame Meetchel,' he said, looking round through his eyeglass, 'is sure to have given you a handsome young man, someone who ought to drive Bruce wild with jealousy, but doesn't, or … or …'
'Or some fly-blown celebrity.'
'Sans doute!'
The door opened and the last guest appeared. It was young Coniston (in khaki), who was invariably asked when there was to be music. He was so useful.
He approached Landi at once.
'Ah, cher maître, quel plaisir!' he said with his South Kensington accent and his Oxford manner. (He had been a Cambridge man.)
'C'est vrai?' asked Landi, who had his own way of dismissing a person in a friendly way.
Coniston began talking to him of a song. Landi waved him off and went up to Mrs Mitchell, said something which made her laugh and blush and try to hit him with her fan—the fan, the assault and the manner were all out of date, but Mrs Mitchell made no pretence at going with the times—and his object was gained.
* * * * *