Mary knew this was quite true, for that was Milly’s way.
“Oh, is he!” If the tone was disdain, its sting was masked by gentle irony and humor. These airs and graces didn’t make enemies, they so frankly belonged to the wonderful Mary Lawrence—her name in the theater. That which might have been mere petulance in a nature thinner of texture, became with her a half-royal impatience for the more trivial aspects of the human comedy.
“But I want to see him,” persisted Milly. “Sonny thinks no end of him.”
“Then I’m sure he’s nice.”
“Why do you think so?” Milly was a little intrigued by the warmth of the words.
“Because Lord Wrexham is charming.”
Milly laughed. The naïve admiration was unexpected, the slightly too respectful air was puzzling. Milly herself was so blasé in regard to the peerage that such an attitude of mind seemed almost provincial. Yet she would have been the first to own that it was the only thing about her enigmatic friend which suggested anything of the kind.
“Sonny says he raves about you.”
“It’s his funeral.” The laugh was honestly gay. “He’ll be very disappointed, poor lad.”
“Don’t fish.”