"That's nothing," said Mrs. Tenssen, as though falling down in Piccadilly were part of every one's daily programme.
"Come along now and make yourself at home."
He drew towards her, fascinated against his will by the shrill green of her dress, the red of her cheeks and the strangely intimate and confident stare with which her eyes, slightly green, enveloped him. As he had horribly anticipated her fat boneless fingers closed upon his arm.
He sat down.
There was a large green teapot painted with crimson roses. The tea was very strong and had been obviously standing for a long time.
Conversation of a very bright kind began between Mrs. Tenssen and Mrs. Armstrong.
"I'm sure you'll understand," said Mrs. Tenssen, smiling with a rich and expensive glitter, "that Mrs. Armstrong is my oldest friend. My oldest and my best. What I always say is that others may misunderstand me, but Ruby Armstrong never. If there's one alive who knows me through and through it's Mrs. Armstrong."
"Yes," said Henry.
"You mustn't believe all the kind things she says about me. One's partial to a friend of a lifetime, of course, but what I always say is if one isn't partial to a friend, who is one going to be partial to?"
Mrs. Armstrong spoke, and Henry almost jumped from his chair so unexpectedly base and masculine was her voice.