‘You would tire before the first lesson was over,’ said Geff, watching Dinah, while he addressed Dinah’s husband. ‘You want my incentive, Gaston, filthy lucre. My terms as a coach in Guernsey are five shillings an hour. Five sixes are thirty. Yes, reading classics and mathematics with Miss Bartrand will just pay half my weekly hotel bill, supposing I am not lucky enough to get other work.’
‘And you don’t care a straw whether Marjorie Bartrand is pretty or plain? My dear Geff, if ever fortune brings you to the stage, take the part of Joseph Surface, for my sake. It would suit you to admiration.’
CHAPTER II POKER TALK
Ere Geoffrey had had time to retaliate, a factor of no common importance was destined to enter the difficult problem of Dinah Arbuthnot’s happiness. Holding the corner of her apron before her lips, the jaunty French waitress tripped up a pathway leading from the hotel to the lime-shaded lawn, and placed a lady’s card between Gaston’s hands.
‘Une dame ... Mais, une petite dame qui demande Monsieur!’
And the serving-woman’s eyes took in the whole space of blue mid-heaven at a glance. Obviously this Norman waitress, with acumen derived from an older civilisation than ours, was mistress of the situation.
In a second of time Dinah had glanced over her husband’s shoulder.
‘Mrs. Thorne. Who is Mrs. Thorne? What is that written in pencil? “Née Linda Constantia Smythe.” Gaston, what is the meaning of “Née?”’