“You don’t say,” remarked the little Puss.
The old note, the old quaint note at which the young marquis invariably chuckled. Such an Original, this girl. Everybody was beginning to say so—quite apart from her money! And Poppa’s hogs had kept poor old Europe for years.
Bill reluctantly rose. “Yes, two o’clock, by gad!” He really must see about a small lobster. At three he had to meet a girl at Hurlingham and watch the polo. “The Yanks, I fear, have got us beat to a frazzle.”
“Shouldn’t wonder at all.” The little Puss began circumspectly to lick her sly lips. And then with seeming carelessness: “Do I know the lady?”
“A Miss Childwick. You’ve barged into her once or twice at the Dance Club.”
“You mean she has barged into me.”
“That’s exactly what I do mean,” said Bill with candour. “Nice girl, but she can’t begin to move in the way that you do. You might be a professional.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Du Rance coldly. It was a two-edged compliment.
“What I mean to say is Gwendolen—”
“Her name’s Gwendolen!”