“Tea! Don’t you wish you may get it! There is not a single vacant table on the lawn. I’ve just been to look. Hullo! Ah—er—Wynne, how do you do?”
Mr. Wynne had been pointed out to him as a rising junior at the bar—a coming man in literature, who wielded an able pen, and was quite one of the season’s minor celebrities. His sketches were a feature of the day—a short one, naturally. Every one was talking of him.
Mr. West loved a celebrity—if he was gentlemanly and in good society, bien entendu—nearly as much as he loved a lord, but not quite; and he added—
“I remember you were at our house last winter, and you are interested in paintings and art. You must look us up, eh?—and come and dine.”
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
“We’ve just come back from the Riviera. Delightful place! Were you ever there?”
“No, I’ve never been nearer to it than Lyons.”
“But I’ve been there,” broke in Lady Rachel; “and I shall never go again, on account of the earthquakes, although it was capital fun at the time.”
“Fun!” repeated Mr. West, with a look of amazement.
“Yes, half the refugees were running about in blankets fastened with hairpins, afraid to return for their clothes. Oh, they were too absurd! A whole train full went to Paris in their dressing-gowns—some in bare feet. Every one was different—‘out of themselves,’ as they say in France. One old lady, in her mad excitement in speeding some relations, actually tore off her wig and waved it after them.”