“No soul?” she reflected, lingering on a puff of smoke. “How chic!”
Stefan was delighted. Hopefully, he broke into French. She replied with fluent ease, but with a strange, though charming, accent. The exotic French fitted her whole personality, he felt, as English could not do. He was pricked by curiosity as to her origin, and did not hesitate to ask it, but she gave her shadow of a smile, and waved her cigarette vaguely. “Quién sabe?” she shrugged.
“Do you know Spanish?” he asked in French, seeking a clue.
“Only what one picks up in California.” He was no nearer a solution.
“Were you out there long?”
She looked at him vaguely. “I should like some coffee, please.”
Defeated, he was obliged to fetch a cup. When he returned, it was to find her talking monosyllabic English to a group of men.
Farraday and McEwan had temporarily resigned Mary to a stream of newcomers, and stood watching the scene from the inner drawing room.
“James,” said McEwan, “get on to the makeup of the crowd round our lady, and compare it with the specimens rubbering the little Berber.”
Farraday smiled in his grave, slow way.