“Oh, I believe he went to India. I haven’t heard of him for ages. We met him, I recollect, at one of those delightful parties at the Stanforths. How are those dear people, by the way?”
“Very well. Mr Stanforth is doing some wonderful pictures. One always meets nice people there. Mary and Kitty made a new acquaintance the last time they went, and he has ripened very fast. He’s in a public office and adores art and music. Kitty sings him German songs.”
“He’s going to get up theatricals with the Stanforths—one of us is to help,” said Kitty.
“Oh, and you wish that ‘one’ may be you, I suppose,” said the married sister.
“What’s your friend’s name, and where does he belong?”
“Crichton—Spencer Crichton. I don’t know where he comes from. I don’t think his friends live in London.”
“Violante Mattei will cut you out, Kit,” said Mrs Compton, lazily.
“I daresay,” said Kitty. “It’s all right if she does. But we thought the Stanforths would be a good place to begin taking her to. They’re so kind and jolly, and they like oddities.”
“And you expect them any time now?”
“Yes; almost at any moment. I do hope we shall all get on together.”