No.
A fat woman in a grey crêpe dress, embroidered in steel beads, standing in the centre of the room, shifted my attention.
Who is that? I asked.
That is Miss Gladys Waine, replied Neith. She is the wife of Horace Arlington, the sculptor.
Miss and a wife? What is she then, herself?
Nothing. She does not write, or paint, or compose. She isn't an actress. She is nothing but a wife, but she insists on retaining her individuality and her name. If any one addresses her as Mrs. Arlington, she is furious, and if you telephone her house and ask for Mrs. Arlington, although she may answer the telephone herself, she will assure you that Mrs. Arlington is not in, does not, in fact, live there at all. She adores Horace, too. The curious thing is that Horace's first wife, who divorced him, has never given up his name, of which she appears to be very proud. She is always called Mrs. Horace Arlington and trembles with rage when some tactless person remembers her own name.
My anonymous companion was by my side again with a plate of chocolate ice cream which he offered me.
Did you ever try eating chocolate ice cream and smoking a cigarette simultaneously? he asked. If you haven't, allow me to recommend the combination. The flavour of both cigarette and ice cream is immensely improved.
An old lady with an ear-trumpet, thinking she had been addressed, took the plate of ice cream from his outstretched hand, leaned over us and queried, Eh?
I say, said my incognito companion, that there is nothing like a good dose of castor oil.