She moved towards the table. It happened to be Baring who cut out, and he and Norgate drifted together. They exchanged a few remarks.
"I met you at Marseilles once," Norgate reminded him. "You were with the
Mediterranean Squadron, commanding the Leicester, I believe."
"Thought I'd seen you somewhere before," was the prompt acknowledgment.
"You're in the Diplomatic Service, aren't you?"
Norgate admitted the fact and suggested a drink. The two men settled down to exchange confidences over a whisky and soda. Baring looked around him with some disapprobation.
"I can't really stick this place," he asserted. "If it weren't for—for some of the people here, I'd never come inside the doors. It's a rotten way of spending one's time. You play, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, I play," Norgate admitted, "but I rather agree with you. How wonderfully well Mrs. Benedek is looking, isn't she!"
Baring withdrew his admiring eyes from her vicinity.
"Prettiest and smartest woman in London," he declared.
"By-the-by, is she English?" Norgate asked.
"A mixture of French, Italian, and German, I believe," Baring replied.
"Her husband is Benedek the painter, you know."