“I haven’t the least idea who takes anybody in,” she declared. “James said he’d see to that, so you might just as well put your hand in a lucky-bag. And I’m not at all sure that you’ll get any dinner. I’ve got a new chef—drives up in a high dogcart with such a sweet little groom. He may be all right. Jules, the maître d’hôtel at Claridge’s, got him for me, and, Wilhelmina, sooner than come out like a ghost, I’d really take lessons in the use of the rouge-pot. My new maid’s a perfect treasure at it. No one can ever tell whether my colour’s natural or not. I don’t mind telling you people it generally isn’t. But anyhow, it isn’t daubed on like Lady Sydney’s—makes her look for all the world like one of ‘ces dames,’ doesn’t it? I’m sure I’d be afraid to be seen speaking to her if I were a man. Gilbert,” she broke off, addressing Deyes, who was just being ushered in, “how dare you come to dinner without being asked? I’m sure I have not asked you. Don’t say I did, now. You refused me eight times running, and I crossed you off my list.”
Deyes held out a card as he bowed over his hostess’s fingers.
“My dear lady,” he said, “here is the proof that I am not an intruder. I am down to take in our hostess of Thorpe!”
“You have bribed James,” she declared. “I hope it cost you a great deal of money. I will not believe that I asked you. However, since you are here, go and tell Wilhelmina some of your stories. I hate pale cheeks, and Wilhelmina blushes easily. No use looking at the clock, Duke. Dinner will be at least half an hour late, I’m sure. These foreign chefs have no idea of punctuality. What’s that? Dinner served! Two minutes before time. Well, we’re all here, aren’t we? I knew it would be either too early or too late. Duke, you will have to take me in. By the time we get there the soup will probably be cold. You’d better pray that we’re starting with caviare and oysters! Such a slow crowd, aren’t they—and such chatterboxes! I wish they’d move on a little faster and talk a little less. No! Only thirty. Nice sociable number, I call it, for a round table. I asked Victor Macheson, the man who’s so rude to us all every Thursday afternoon for a guinea a time—I don’t know why we pay it to be abused,—but he wouldn’t come. I met him before he developed, and I don’t think he liked me.”
“You got my telegram?” Deyes asked, as he unfolded his napkin.
Wilhelmina nodded.
“Yes!” she answered. “It was very good of you to warn me. I have had—a letter already. The campaign has begun.”
Deyes nodded.