“We went to the Palace last night,” he began, almost before they had sat down to their meal. “On our way home I noticed that your new sign in Piccadilly wasn’t burning properly.”
“Really,” said Peter stiffly.
“Lobster mayonnaise, or some of these cold eggs?” asked Patricia, hoping to turn their conversation.
But her brother-in-law took no notice. “I’m somewhat of an expert on signs,” he continued. “And, frankly, I don’t think they have much selling value on a high-grade article like yours. I pin my faith to full pages in the six-penny weeklies. And of course, Punch. Although Punch is a humorous paper. . . .”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Francis.
“I said—although Punch is a humorous paper.”
Francis, feeling satire useless with a creature of this type, gave up the struggle. Hubert accepted an egg, as less liable than lobster to impede talk; and continued his harangue.
Peter, who knew that Rawlings, despite his personal unpleasantness, possessed knowledge, listened interestedly—asking a question every now and then. The others started a conversation on their own.
Said Violet, monopolizing it, “Oh but we never leave London while the ‘House’ is sitting. I think politics so interesting, Mr. Gordon. Don’t you? Though I suppose as an author—so clever, that last poem of yours—you take more interest in the affairs of the heart.”
She ruffled herself; rattled on.