After dinner a galaxy of intelligentsian entertainment was provided by the experienced hosts; planchette, charades, chamber-music, recitations and auto-suggestion were freely indulged in; and in the Edward VII smoke-room the kindly host grew deliberately reminiscent. But Gav and Lady Blandula, in their unconventional way, were sitting out on one of the greater staircases, sipping liqueurs and bandying witticisms highly characteristic of each other. Suddenly Bladge slipped from her finger a curiously wrought ring of turquoise, and handed it to her surprised, and almost flattered, companion.
“Yours, Gav,” she said with a champagne-like laugh. “I got it on false pretences, you know—and I’ll draw you a cheque for its wrapping.”
Gav looked at her in puzzled silence.
“Oh, stupid!” she rattled on. “And is your soul still so beautiful? My body certainly is!”
“But really——”
“No, I could see all the time you didn’t really know your Plotinus Arbiter, mon petit rat!”
And Gaveston remembered. So that had been another of the famous syren’s tricks! This one at all costs must be kept from the newspapers.… His look spoke for him, and Lady Blandula laughed heartily as she went on.
“Oh, it’s all right, you poor lamb! Innocent relaxation and social research—why shouldn’t I combine them? I did, you know, for quite a week after that night, too.”
Synthesis always appealed to Gaveston.