“Every one raves about her,” Lady Angela continued. “For my part I can see no difference in any of these French girls who come over here with their demure manner and atrocious songs.”
“Alcide’s songs are not atrocious,” Ennison remarked.
Lady Angela shrugged her shoulders.
“It is unimportant,” she said. “Nobody understands them, of course, but we all look as though we did. Something about this woman rather reminds me of our hostess.”
Ennison thought so too half an hour later, when having cut out from one of the bridge tables he settled down for a chat with Annabel. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. Then he remembered that she was Anna’s sister.
He lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her.
“By-the-bye, Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “do you know that I am a very great admirer of your sister’s? I wonder if she has ever spoken to you of me.”
The change in Lady Ferringhall’s manner was subtle but unmistakable. She answered him almost coldly.
“I see nothing of my sister,” she said. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. I have heard of you from my husband. You are somebody’s secretary, are you not?”
It was plain that the subject was distasteful to her, but Ennison, although famous in a small way for his social tact, did not at once discard it.