There was more than one note of interrogation in Claire’s way of saying it—quite three or four.
“You remember how rippingly she sang ‘The Bluebells of Scotland’ the other night?”
“Oh, yes, I remember that.”
“We thought of her, for the ‘Bulbul Ameer’ song at the beginning because one really does want someone who’ll pronounce all the words distinctly. And she’s got a good ‘carrying’ voice, if ever I heard one.”
“I daresay,” said Claire distantly.
Bill Patch looked from one to another of us, and I remembered how, the first time I saw him, he had reminded me of a Clumber spaniel—so young, and awkward, and eager—and now, evidently, so much puzzled as well.
“Her voice really is a very good one,” said Mrs. Fazackerly pleadingly. “And I’m rather sorry for her, do you know. After all, in Egypt she must have had a very amusing time and known heaps of people—and now to come back to Cross Loman—”
“Where she came from!” ejaculated Claire.
“I know—but that makes it harder, in a way. She’s outgrown the people whom she saw most of when she was Diamond Ellison—and after all, she wasn’t so very much more than a schoolgirl when she married and went away. I think she feels a little bit stranded sometimes.”
“Where is Mr. Harter—and what is he?” Claire demanded.