Seated upon a roomy lounge in the foyer of the Savoy were three women who attracted more than an average amount of attention from the passers-by. In the middle was the Duchess of Devenham, erect, stately, and with a figure which was still irreproachable notwithstanding her white hair. On one side sat her daughter, Lady Grace Redford, tall, fair, and comely; on the other, Miss Penelope Morse. The two girls were amusing themselves, watching the people; their chaperon had her eye upon the clock.
“To dine at half-past seven,” the Duchess remarked, as she looked around the entresol of the great restaurant through her lorgnettes, “is certainly a little trying for one’s temper and for one’s digestion, but so long as those men accepted, I certainly think they ought to have been here. They know that the play begins at a quarter to nine.”
“It isn’t like Dicky Vanderpole in the least,” Penelope said. “Since he began to tread the devious paths of diplomacy, he has brought exactness in the small things of life down to a fine art.”
“He isn’t half so much fun as he used to be,” Lady Grace declared.
“Fun!” Penelope exclaimed. “Sometimes I think that I never knew a more trying person.”
“I have never known the Prince unpunctual,” the Duchess murmured. “I consider him absolutely the best-mannered young man I know.”
Lady Grace smiled, and glanced at Penelope.
“I don’t think you’ll get Penelope to agree with you, mother,” she said.
“Why not, my dear?” the Duchess asked. “I heard that you were quite rude to him the other evening. We others all find him so charming.”
Penelope’s lip curled slightly.