She played the gracious lady with such perfect restraint and charm that even Simon was impressed, while Mrs Wingate almost swooned.
“I’m so glad. How could I possibly mind? I’ve admired your art for so long, my dear Miss Varing — oh! A cocktail?”
She beckoned urgently, and a servant came with his tray. He offered it to Simon last, and Mrs Wingate’s attention was directed to Monica’s escort.
“Oh, dear — I should know you, too,” she gushed — and giggled helplessly. “I’m sure I should. I have such a dreadful memory for names.”
“There’s no reason why you should know mine,” said the Saint amiably. “I’m uninvited, too. I came with Miss Varing. My name is Templar. Simon Templar.”
“Simon Templar,” Mrs Wingate echoed, looking at him along her nose, over a battery of chins. “It’s familiar, somehow. Oh, I know. The Senator from—”
Behind the Saint a deep, mild, slightly treacly voice said, “Not quite, Laura. Not quite.”
Stephen Elliott moved into the group with a sort of apologetic benevolence that reminded the Saint of an undertaker associating with the bereaved.
Seen without interference by the dark glasses through which Simon had observed him first, there was a fresh pink tint to his long, aristocratic features rather similar in contour to those of a well-bred horse, which suggested that he had arrived fresh from a facial. His skin strengthened the impression with a smooth softness which implied the same attention daily. Whatever his other philanthropies may have been, it was evident that he must have been a benison to his barber.
Simon admitted him to their circle with an easy geniality that contained no hint of recognition.