"She must be very clever," said Poppy drily.
"She is. She's a bird," said Bramham with enthusiasm. "When her book came out everybody here black-guarded her, and said it showed what an immoral wretch she was to know such things about men and women." He gave Poppy a side-glance to see if he should add something else that was hot on his tongue, but he decided that she was too innocent-eyed.
"All the same, we all sneaked off to Piet Davis's and looked at the Bibles whilst we shoved bits of paper across the counter: 'Please send me two copies of Diana Amongst the Wesleyans at once; wrap each in the Sunday at Home and despatch to my office.'"
Poppy gave a little ringing laugh and asked eagerly:
"Is she here now?"
"Lord no! I wish she were. She has settled in France, where, she says, they understand temperament better than out here, and I believe it. Last night I went to a dinner-party—a thing I never do, and it served me right—and a woman opposite started tackling me about her; said she had seen Mrs. Haybittel in Paris, and that she was older-looking than ever."
"'Yes, so am I,' said I, 'but I am also more in love with her than ever.' At which she giggled, and they all turned up their mirthless eyes at me. That woman is an old enemy of mine, and she always trains her guns on me whenever she can get an audience. She's a Mrs. Gruyère, and if ever you meet her, beware!"
"'I thought the ideal woman was always young,' she snippered at me.
"'Not at all,' I said. 'She may be old, but not too old. She may be ugly, but not too ugly. She may be bad, but not too bad. It is a pity you didn't find someone to tell you about this before,' I finished. That gave her something to bite on with her celluloid teeth."
Bramham amused Poppy in this fashion for something like two hours, and then, having given himself an invitation to call again shortly, he left her with laughter on her lips and the shadows fled from her eyes. She went indoors and, her old trick, looked at herself in a mirror.