“You’re a queer girl,” he said, laughing in spite of himself.
“That’s tautology. All girls are queer. Did you ever know a woman absolutely sane?”
He winced a little—shadows of his mother and his wife flashed past. She answered herself, triumphantly.
“Of course not. We’ve all got bees in our bonnets. Men haven’t even got bonnets. Except Highlanders. And they don’t wear the breeches. I beg pardon, I should have said ‘unmentionables’ to a member of the chimney-potted classes. But that always seems silly. It’s like spelling ‘damn’ in books with a ‘d’ and a blank. I have a lovely private swear. Would you like to hear it?”
He laughed assent.
“Damakakaparatanasuta! The pink lady, who always forgets her bodice, is looking shocked. She doesn’t know it’s Sanscrit, or something, and means: ‘The foundation of the kingdom of righteousness.’ Don’t laugh, it really does. There is a cousin of the Guicowar of Baroda over there—you can ask him. Why, I have even got Nor to swear to swear it. It’s like temperance champagne.”
“Ah! I’d better go over to her,” he said, snapping at the opportunity. “Or else she’ll accuse me of cutting her again.”
He pushed a whit rudely through the teacup-balancing throng. But to his horror he found Eleanor distributing farewells.
She smiled faintly at him, as her magnetic fingers touched his for a moment.
“What wicked things have you been saying to Mademoiselle Brinskaïa?”