“She rather enjoys things, mother,” she said.
There was a pause, in which Mrs. Wardour slowly and deliberately recalled certain moments which nobody would have thought she had noticed.
“Well, she isn’t going to enjoy my things,” she said.
They were seated in Mrs. Wardour’s private sitting-room in the great house in Piccadilly. It was hung with French brocade; an immense Aubusson carpet covered the floor, and a Reisener table and bureau, with half a dozen very splendid chairs, echoed the same epoch. Mrs. Wardour had found this a little too stiff for domestic ease, and a decidedly more homely note was struck by a few wicker chairs, upholstered in cretonne, and a tea-table of the same imperishable material, with flaps which let down on hinges and formed convenient shelves for cakes and teacups. On the top of the bureau was a large photograph of the late Mr. Wardour in watch-chain and broadcloth. There were but a few more names, and Mrs. Wardour closed the book.
“Then you’ll send invitations to the names I’ve given you, Miss Winterton,” she said, “on R.S.V.P. cards. There’s no one else you’d like to ask, Silvia?”
Silvia knew quite well what she was intending to say, and wondered why she hesitated.
“Will you ask Mr. Peter Mainwaring?” she said.
“Mr. Mainwaring? I don’t seem to recollect——”
“Darling, of course you can’t recollect everybody,” said the girl; “but I should like him to be asked.”
“Certainly then. What’s his initials and address?”