“Sh—sh—sh—” warned Pamela, nodding in Marjorie’s direction.
“Well, isn’t it?” insisted the other.
“Hush! She’ll hear you.”
“I suppose that means it is. Does she know?”
“I don’t think so,” whispered Pamela. “Doesn’t see much beyond the kitchen cabinet and the drawing-room curtains, I fancy.”
“Lucky woman,” murmured Helena Chesley, thinking of her impressionable husband.
“Who’s speaking?” Mrs. Long was moved to ask. Until that moment, no one had given a glance at the House.
Mr. Sullivan, it seemed, had the floor. A few Members watched him languidly. Nobody listened.
Pamela de Latour turned attentive eyes upon him for a moment or two. Then,
“There’s really something intriguing about that man,” she murmured. “If only he would apply a little veneer to cover the knots once in a while, he would be accepted everywhere. No one minds what he does when you come to analyse things; only they mind what he does so openly. Does anyone happen to know the reigning favourite?”