“Strone,” he said, “I want to introduce you to my cousin. Beatrice, allow me to present Mr. Strone—Lady Malingcourt.”
Under the fire of dinner-table talk they relapsed easily enough into more familiar relations.
“I am not at all sure that I like you,” she said, looking at him critically. “Your dress coat came evidently from Saville Row and your tie is perfection. You are not in character at all. I expected a homespun suit, hobnailed boots, and a flannel shirt. I wasn’t sure about the collar, but I counted upon a red tie. Please don’t tell me that you are a club man, and that you go to afternoon teas.”
He laughed. Even his voice was subdued.
“No fear of that,” he declared. “When I go out it is generally to meat teas in the suburbs or midday dinners with my constituents in Gascester. I have even a red tie of which I am very fond.”
She stole another glance at him. There were streaks of gray in his black hair, deep lines in his hard, clean-shaven face. If a dinner such as this was a rare event to him, he showed no signs of awkwardness. He joined now and then in the conversation around. Most of the men seemed known to him.
“I have read of you,” she said abruptly, “of your maiden speech and rapid progress in the House.”
He lowered his voice.
“It was what you wished?”
“Nothing has ever given me more pleasure,” she said simply. “You got my cable?”