She looked round the room vaguely, as if the appropriate word might be lurking in some angle of the apartment; finally, the epithet proving difficult, she abandoned the search.
"Il ira loin!" she said tersely; "he flatters me discreetly, as they did when I was young, before the Republic."
The silent, well-trained man handed round caviare and olives; Mary trifled with some grapes, her brow knitted a little, thoughtfully. Lady Garnett poured herself a glass of maraschino. When they were left alone, the girl remarked abruptly:
"I am not sure whether I quite like Mr. Lightmark; he does not seem to me sincere."
Lady Garnett lifted up her hands.
"Why should he be, my dear? sincerity is very trying. A decent hypocrisy is the secret of good society. Your good, frank people are very rude. If I am a wicked old woman, it is nobody's business to tell me so but my director's."
Mary had risen, and had come over to the old lady's side.
"But then, you are not a wicked old woman, my aunt," she observed gently.
"Ah!" she threw back, "how do you judge? Do me the justice to believe, chèrie, that, if I tell you a good deal, there is a good deal, happily, which I don't tell you."
She pushed a box of cigarettes, which the man had placed on the table, toward Rainham. He took one and lit it silently, absently, without his accustomed protests; the girl looked up smiling.