Though the bridal freshness still lingered, a more wilful element was also observable. Invitation-cards, race-cards, the Daily Mail, magazines, English and French novels, and cigarettes were freely scattered about, and an expert would have seen at a glance that the dresses lying in every direction could not have formed part of any trousseau. They had obviously been chosen with (or against) the advice of Lord Chetwode.
Savile sat down on a pink curved sofa, and said definitely—
"Look here, Felicity, I want to speak to you."
"Yes, darling?"
"Does Chetwode know what's going to win the Cambridgeshire?"
"How can he know, darling? Would it be fair? Of course he has some vague idea. Candid Friend he said was the favourite. He says it's a certainty. But his certainties! (Everett, look out. You've been overdoing the waving lately. Remember how careful I have to be not to look like a wax-doll in a hair-dresser's shop ... with my complexion)! Go on, Savile,—what's the party going to be like?"
"Like nothing on earth, my dear, as usual. One of the governor's baffling entertainments."
"Well, I don't care what people say, Savile! I think papa's parties are the greatest fun one can get anywhere. It's a wonderful mixture,—a sort of Russian salad. How exciting it is, for instance, never being quite sure whether one is going to be taken to dinner by—Lord Rosebery, or—Little Tich!"
"As it happens, my dear, they've both refused," said Savile ironically.
"Oh, Savile, don't be funny when I've no time to laugh. Do you deny papa's peculiar talent for celebrities? Is De Valdez coming?"