“I’m a tremendous gambler, I’m afraid. I love my game of Bridge. There are some dear friends of mine living in Lexham Gardens, who frequently give Bridge parties. I daresay you’ve heard of them—Sir Rupert and Lady Honoret?”
“I don’t think I have.”
“No?” said Miss Forster, looking rather disappointed. “She’s so very well known in Society that I thought you might have. I must introduce you some day. Such a clever woman!”
Suddenly an echo came back to Lydia’s well-trained memory. She was in the drawing-room of the Wimbledon house again, listening to Aunt Evelyn’s droning voice reading from her illustrated paper:
“Fancy! it says here that ‘the wife of this city magnate is no mean critic of l’école moderne, having herself contributed on several occasions to the sum of New Thought literature, in the shape of several charmingly written sketches pour nos autres.’ That would be this Sir Rupert Honoret’s wife, I suppose. They say she’s a Jewess.”
“Doesn’t Lady Honoret write?” said Lydia.
“That’s it!” cried Miss Forster delightedly. “I thought you must have heard of her; she’s so well known.”
“Yes, I have heard of her. I remember now,” said Lydia, inwardly congratulating herself on the excellence of her memory.
“I feel certain that you and I are going to be pals,” Miss Forster exclaimed breezily. “Between ourselves, there’s nobody I’ve taken to very violently here. I really thought it was more of a residential hotel than a boarding-house, or I shouldn’t have come. One really can’t entertain one’s friends here, with such awful servants, and that terrible old Miss Lillicrap always about the place. She has a heart, you know, so one can’t say much.”
Both Miss Forster’s hands flew to her ample bust, in indication of the nature of Miss Lillicrap’s complaint.