“She is at Windsor this afternoon,” he remarked.
“What, at the Garden-Party?” Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge almost shrieked.
Peter nodded.
“I believe there’s some fete or other to-morrow,” he said, “but we’re alone this evening. Why won’t you dine with us, say at the Carlton?”
“We’d love to,” the lady assented, promptly.
“At eight o’clock,” Peter said, taking his leave.
The dinner party was a great success. Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge found herself among the class of people with whom it was her earnest desire to become acquainted, and her husband was well satisfied to see her keen longing for society likely to be gratified. The subject of Peter’s call at the office in the city was studiously ignored. It was not until the very end of the evening, indeed, that the host of this very agreeable party was rewarded by a single hint. It all came about in the most natural manner. They were speaking of foreign capitals.
“I love Paris,” Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge told her host. “Just adore it. Charles is often there on business and I always go along.”
Peter smiled. There was just a chance here.
“Your husband does not often have to leave London though,” he remarked, carelessly.