“He knows,” suggested Dora.
“Yes, he knows.”
Miss Mazerod was looking at the mechanism of her fan with a demure expression on lips shaped for happiness. A dark young man was elbowing his way through the mixed crowd towards them.
“What is his name?” asked Dora, who was still looking at the man with a purpose.
“General Seymour Michael.”
“The Indian man?”
“Yes.”
There was a little pause, during which Miss Mazerod glanced in the direction of the younger man, who had been detained by a stout lady with a purple dress and a depressed daughter.
“I should like to know him,” said Dora.
“Nothing easier,” replied her cousin, still absorbed in the fan. “I know him quite well.”