Drummond apologised. “Our talk on trivialities engrossed me for the moment,” he murmured. He held the lighted match for her, and as he did so he saw that she was staring over his shoulder at someone behind his back.
“Don’t look round,” she ordered, “and tell me your name quickly.”
“Drummond—Captain Drummond, late of the Loamshires.” He leaned back in his chair, and lit a cigarette himself.
“And are you going to Henley this year?” Her voice was a shade louder than before.
“I don’t know,” he answered casually. “I may run down for a day possibly, but——”
“My dear Phyllis,” said a voice behind his back, “this is a pleasant surprise. I had no idea that you were in London.”
A tall, clean-shaven man stopped beside the table, throwing a keen glance at Drummond.
“The world is full of such surprises, isn’t it?” answered the girl lightly. “I don’t suppose you know Captain Drummond, do you? Mr. Lakington—art connoisseur and—er—collector.”
The two men bowed slightly, and Mr. Lakington smiled. “I do not remember ever having heard my harmless pastimes more concisely described,” he remarked suavely. “Are you interested in such matters?”
“Not very, I’m afraid,” answered Drummond. “Just recently I have been rather too busy to pay much attention to art.”