I
SET TO PARTNERS
"Oh, look, dear, there's that poor Walter Bassett."
Amber Roan looked down from the roof of the drag at the crossing restless shuttles, weaving with feminine woof and masculine warp the multi-coloured web of Society in London's cricket Coliseum.
"Where?" she murmured, her eye wandering over the little tract of sunlit green between the coaches with their rival Eton and Harrow favours. Before Lady Chelmer had time to bend her pink parasol a little more definitely, a thunder of applause turned Amber Roan's face back towards the wickets, with a piqued expression.
"It's real mean," she said. "What have I missed now?"
"Only a good catch," said the Hon. Tolshunt Darcy, whose eyes had never faltered from her face.
"My, that's just the one thing I've been dying for," she pouted self-mockingly.
"Poor Walter Bassett," Lady Chelmer repeated. "I knew his mother."