‘Fanny’s in Paris,’ pursued Miss. French. ‘Writes as if she was amusing herself. I think I shall run over and have a look at her. Seen Ada? She’s been playing the fool as usual. Found out that Arthur had taken the kid to his sister’s at Canterbury; went down and made a deuce of a kick-up; they had to chuck her out of the house. Of course she cares no more about the child than I do; it’s only to spite her husband. She’s going to law with him, she says. She won’t leave the house in De Crespigny Park, and she’s running up bills—you bet!’
Nancy tried to laugh. The effort, and its semi-success, indicated surrender to her companion’s spirit rather than any attention to the subject spoken of.
They returned to the drawing-room, but had not time to begin a conversation before the servant summoned them to dinner. A very satisfying meal it proved; not badly cooked, as cooking is understood in Brixton, and served with more of ceremony than the guest had expected. Fried scallops, rump steak smothered in onions, an apple tart, and very sound Stilton cheese. Such fare testified to the virile qualities of Beatrice’s mind; she was above the feminine folly of neglecting honest victuals. Moreover, there appeared two wines, sherry and claret.
‘Did you ever try this kind of thing?’ said the hostess finally, reaching a box of cigarettes.
‘I?—Of course not,’ Nancy replied, with a laugh.
‘It’s expected of a sensible woman now-a-days. I’ve got to like it. Better try; no need to make yourself uncomfortable. Just keep the smoke in your mouth for half-a-minute, and blow it out prettily. I buy these in the Haymarket; special brand for women.’
‘And you dine like this, by yourself, every day?’
‘Like this, but not always alone. Some one or other drops in. Luckworth Crewe was here yesterday.’
Speaking, she watched Nancy, who bore the regard with carelessness, and replied lightly:
‘It’s an independent sort of life, at all events.’