"From her sister?"
"Yes."
"I'll give you her address this evening," said James Wilberforce, and replaced his receiver.
2
The Lustrum is one of those semi-social, semi-political clubs which combine sound cookery, a cellar beyond reproach, and a chairman of the utmost distinction, with the architectural style of a Turkish bath and the gloom of a family mausoleum. A tape-machine ticks by the glass-doored porter's box in the hall; an enormous gold-framed oil of Mr. Asquith stares down the red marble staircase; English waiters--last of their breed--move in unhurried dignity through the vast dining-room; while "members bringing guests" are subject to rules so complicated that even the honorary secretary--who takes most of the credit for the paid secretary's work when he appears before a somnolent committee--has been known to infringe them.
The constraint of this atmosphere weighed so heavily on the friends as to make immediate conversation impossible. Only after a bottle of the Lustrum's pre-war Pommard, a glass apiece of the Lustrum's '68 port, and the third of a cigar consumed over coffee in the stuffy guest-room, did Jimmy Wilberforce manage:
"Old chap, I'm afraid this is a devil of a mess. You've seen your mater, I suppose!"
"Seen her!" Ronnie smiled--and then, cautiously: "Didn't you know that she was staying with us?"
"Us?" Wilberforce repeated the word. "You mean----"
"With myself and Aliette."