That the table which was offered them at Claridge’s should lie directly between one presided over by Mrs. Closeley Dore and another at which Mrs. Sheraton Forbes was entertaining two stylish Americans was sheer good fortune. . . . . Virgil and Sarah had the time of their lives. Placidly to browse under their enemies’ noses was delightful enough. The reflection that the more they vented their good humour, the higher must rise the fever of indignation raging on either side, made the two positively festive. . . . When the two Americans asked their hostess the identity of ‘that most attractive couple,’ and seemed surprised to learn that they were not of the Blood Royal, Mrs. Sheraton Forbes’ cup began to overflow. . . .
At length—
“Ah,” said Pardoner, “the rot’s set in. The tumult and the shouting dies, The Closeleys and the Dores depart. I’ll bet old Chippendale doesn’t last two minutes alone.”
“Got it in one,” said Sarah. “She’s up. Her guests haven’t finished, but she hasn’t seen that. She’s ordering coffee in the lounge. I’m afraid she’s terribly upset.”
“Good,” said Virgil. “And we’ve shortened ‘Slam It’s’ life. When I called you ‘darling’ just now, I thought she was going to founder. Incidentally, I said it very well, didn’t I?”
“Like a professional,” said Miss Vulliamy. “You must have said it before.”
“Never, darling.”
“O-o-oh,” said Sarah. “Any way, you needn’t say it now. The audience has dispersed.”
“But it comes so natural.”
Sarah tilted her chin.