Lydia felt rather at a loss for a reply.
“I’ve come up to work,” she said at last. “But I hope I shall see something of the world while I’m here.”
“Oh, I expect so. Of course, this is a quiet part of town—not like Kensington or the West End, by any means—in fact, I’ve never lived so far out before. My friends are always trying to get me to move into a little West End flat somewhere, but I say, ‘No; I don’t care for the bother of housekeeping.’ And really we’re quite well done here, you know, and of course I don’t hesitate to order in any little extra thing. I’m afraid I like my comforts, Miss Raymond. It’s what I’ve been accustomed to all my life.”
“Have you always lived in London?” Lydia politely inquired.
She was remembering Grandpapa’s axiom: Always let the other people talk about themselves.
It appeared that Miss Forster did not require much encouragement to do so with great animation, and a number of rather superfluous gesticulations, illustrative of her words.
“Oh, my dear Miss Raymond! I always say I’m a rolling stone!”
Miss Forster’s hands described rapid revolutions one over the other in the air.
“I’ve been in all sorts of places, but I’ve come to the conclusion that London is the place to live in. There’s always something to do there. If it’s bad weather, there are concerts or theatres always going on—and one can always pop round to one’s club and get a game of Bridge.”
As Miss Forster enumerated these resources of urban life, she successively agitated her fingers up and down an imaginary key-board, gazed eagerly through imaginary opera-glasses held up to her eyes, and rapidly dealt out a few imaginary cards.