Mrs. Tump needed no prompting. She went on smoothly in the effortless voice of one who is an easy, fluent talker. “I christened her Cleopatra Circe Tump. I guess it embarrassed her to death, but at least she wasn’t chained to a life of mediocrity by having names that were a millstone of conventional respectability around her neck.”
Mason flashed a swift glance of amusement at Della Street. “Do you then associate respectability with mediocrity?”
“Not always,” she said. “I haven’t any quarrel with respectability. I just hate the labels, that’s all.”
“Did you want to consult me about your daughter?”
“No. She married a banker in Des Moines — a stuffed shirt, if you ask me. She’s a pillar of respectability, and hates her names as badly as I hated mine. None of her friends even know about the Circe part of her name.”
Mason smiled. “What was the matter you wanted to discuss?”
She said, “It goes back to 1918 shortly before the Armistice.”
“What happened?”
“I was a passenger on a British boat sailing for South Africa. On the ship were two Russian refugees — traveling incognito, of course. They had been high officials under the old regime — that is, he had. It had taken them years to escape from that awful nightmare of Bolshevism, and their little daughter had been left behind.”
Mason nodded and offered Mrs. Tump a cigarette. “Not right now,” she said. “Later on, I’ll join you. Now I want to get this off my chest.”