“Upon my word,” his lordship returned, “you see people at London parties who look a long way from that!”
“Do you think Mr. Woodley could find us Mr. Beaumont?” asked the elder of the ladies.
He stared and looked about. “I daresay he could. Percy sometimes comes here. Don’t you think you could find him, Woodley? Make a dive or a dash for it.”
“Thank you; I’ve had enough of violent movement,” said Willie Woodley. “I’ll wait till Mr. Beaumont comes to the surface.”
“I’ll bring him to see you,” said Lord Lambeth. “Where are you staying?”
“You’ll find the address in my letter—Jones’s Hotel.”
“Oh, one of those places just out of Piccadilly? Beastly hole, isn’t it?” Lord Lambeth inquired.
“I believe it’s the best hotel in London,” said Mrs. Westgate.
“But they give you awful rubbish to eat, don’t they?” his lordship went on.
Mrs. Westgate practised the same serenity. “Awful.”