“Ah, you here?” he exclaimed, with something less than his usual politeness.
“Aren’t we going to be friends again?” said the vivacious lady, casting her eyes about her.
“I didn’t know we were anything else,” said Lacour drily.
“You always take it for granted that you are forgiven. And is this true that I hear?”
“You must hear so many things.”
“I do,” was the pithy reply. “But of course you know what I mean. When, pray, did you get rid of poor A. W.?”
The music was loud, but there were people sitting very near, and Mrs. Bruce Page had a habit of referring to her acquaintances thus cautiously. She allowed herself the solecism, as she allowed herself sundry other freedoms which had got her a worse name than she deserved.
“I don’t think we need talk of such things,” said Vincent coolly. “You are abundantly gifted with imagination. It will supply your needs in conversation for the next few days.”
“You are monstrously unkind,” she said, in a lower voice, and with a manner which would imply to observers that she was saying the most indifferent things. “If I liked to talk, now—but I won’t betray you. You might tell me all about it in return.”
“There is nothing to tell. Engagements are broken off every day.”