The man she knew introduced her to the others. Most of them were English and she had a great admiration for the English. It was not particularly fashionable to like them now but she still was fascinated by them because they could talk without moving their lips. It was rather wonderful.
“And this,” said the man she knew, “is Mrs Bankton.”
“How do you do,” said Mrs Bankton in a low voice. She was not English; Mrs Stevanson could tell that right away.
“We’ve met before, I think?” A hint of question was in Mrs Stevanson’s voice.
“I don’t think we have.”
Mrs Bankton was definitely not English. Her accent was French or Spanish or Italian. Mrs Stevanson could never tell one from the other.
“Mrs Bankton’s husband is the artist,” said the man she knew slightly.
“Of course,” said Mrs Stevanson wondering who Bankton was. “Certainly, I know. But you’re not English, my dear?”
“No, madame, I’m not English.” Mrs Bankton smiled at her and made no further admissions. Mrs Stevanson looked at her with dislike. She liked to find out about people quickly. Life was too short to have them hold back important facts and, ultimately, confidences. People always confided in Mrs Stevanson, knowing that she was not sufficiently interested in them to repeat what she heard.
“I do hope you’ll enjoy yourself,” said Mrs Stevanson more cordially than she would have done had she liked the person.