She looked at me sideways, then dropped her eyelashes. “Dear Baron,” she murmured, “how very——”
“I was not, however,” I interrupted hastily, for I felt the ice would not bear much skating on, “thinking of him. I was referring to your sister.”
“Oh?” said she—almost like the charming relative herself.
“She is of course, and as you know, delightful. But of all her delightfulness do you know what strikes me as most delightful?”
“No,” said Mrs. Menzies-Legh, watching me with obvious interest.
“Her conversation.”
“Yes. She is a good talker,” she admitted.
“What I call a perfect talker,” said I enthusiastically.
“I know. Everybody says so.”
“Never too much,” I said meaningly.