"Really?" said Mrs. Gerald Lace, all attention, thinking what a charming miniature her blonde beauty would make.
Mrs. Gruyère said nothing. She was completely knocked out of the ring for five seconds, during which time Mrs. Portal smiled an amazed smile at the sunflowers on the lawn, and Abinger, with the pride of one who has done exceeding well, rose and handed tea-cups and cake from the tray of a neat and pretty maid—Hyacinth's English nurse, to be precise, who was always harnessed-in on Sunday afternoons. Having modestly helped himself to three sandwiches, he reseated himself upon the floor, for time was up: Mrs. Gruyère had got her second wind.
Could it be true, she demanded of him, that there was talk of that odious Sir Evelyn Carson getting a peerage next? Why should he have got the Administratorship of Borapota, when there were so many fine men born and bred in Africa, much more eligible for the post? (Her own brother, in fact—hinc illæ!) Wasn't it a fact that Carson was exiled to Africa ten years ago because he had been mixed up in a famous divorce suit with Royalty and dared not show his nose in England again? Did Abinger consider it likely that Carson would marry May Mappin, who was still scandalously in love with him and ready to throw herself at him, together with the fortune which her father had made by "running guns" to the Zulus in '76?
"—And was made Mayor, and died!" she finished as though she had been reciting a new kind of creed.
Some portion, at least, of this surprising indictment had made Mrs. Capron's tinted cheek pale with anger. Clem Portal, too, was disturbed. She glanced fiercely at Mrs. Gruyère, and remarked with great emphasis and point:
"Rot!"
Mrs. Gruyère looked as if she would have liked to snort at this rude reception of her news; she contented herself, however, with a sniff—a Colonial habit of hers.
Mrs. Lace also roused herself to an effort. She had not Mrs. Portal's pluck to fire boldly in the face of the enemy, but she was inspired to make a little side-attack.
"He would never dream of marrying a Colonial: Gerald told me so."
Mrs. Gruyère's nostrils broadened like a hippo's; she could have tomahawked Mrs. Lace on the spot. For a moment she cast her inward eye back across the trail of Mrs. Lace's past—if she had only been a Johannesburg crow, with three coats of whitewash, how Mrs. Gruyère would have turned the waterspouts of truth on her! But as it happened, Gerald Lace had extracted his blonde bride from a tender home at Kingston-on-Thames—and that was a far cry! And since her marriage, she was known to be what is called "absolutely de-vo-ted." What satisfaction can be got out of a woman like that? Mrs. Gruyère was obliged to hide her tomahawk for the time being. Smiling a thin smile with an edge as sharp as a razor to it, she addressed herself to the audience at large.