‘Oh, you?’ said the lady. ‘You can go to the devil!’
Captain Howland-Bowser looked enviously after them as they left the room.
‘Your Borneo Prince has made no end of a conquest, Baron,’ he said, finding Blumenstrauss—whom he hated, by-the-bye—at his elbow. ‘H’m! H’m!’
‘Aha, my dear Bowser, wid nine hunderd tousand pount a year one can do anysing.’
What they could have to say to one another in the window-seat, no one could imagine. They were neither of them great talkers; everybody knew that. Yet there was Prince Dwala, with his grave face tilted to one side, eagerly drinking in her words, answering rapidly, decisively; and Lady Wyse giggling like a school-girl, blinking away tears of laughter from her violet eyes. Such a thing had never been seen. How long had they known one another? Never met till this evening. Nonsense; he’s there every afternoon.
Whatever the subject of the duologue may have been, the effect of it on Lady Wyse was of the happiest kind. She was metamorphosed; radiant, and, for her, gracious; transfused with life, she seemed taller and larger than before.
The Huxtable’s grim face was wreathed, in spite of him, in smiles; a flush of pleasure peeped out from under his bristling hair as Lady Wyse stopped Dwala before him and demanded an introduction.
‘I’ve heard of you so often, Mr. Huxtable. My father knew your uncle the Judge. I hope you’ll come to some of my Thursdays.’