“R’ally,” said the lady, “the world is ve-ry small, isn’t it?”
She was a lean, angular, inordinately vivacious body whose years, which were many more than forty, were making a brave struggle to masquerade as thirty. She was notorious for her execrable taste in gowns and jewelry, but her social position was impregnable, and her avowed mission in life was to bring together Society (meaning the caste of money) with the Arts (meaning those humble souls content to sell their dreams for the wherewithal to sustain life).
Her passion for bromidioms always stupefied Staff—left him dazed and witless. In the present instance he could think of nothing by way of response happier than that hoary banality: “This is indeed a surprise.”
“Flatterer!” said Mrs. Ilkington archly. “I’m not surprised,” she pursued. “I might have known you’d be aboard this vessel.”
“You must be a prophetess of sorts, then,” he said, smiling. “I didn’t know I was going to sail, myself, till late yesterday afternoon.”
“Deceiver,” commented the lady calmly. “Why can’t you men ever be candid?”
Surprise merged into some annoyance. “What do you mean?” he asked bluntly.
“Oh, but two can play at that game,” she assured him spiritedly. “If you won’t be open with me, why should I tell all I know?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re driving at, Mrs. Ilkington.”
“Would it improve your understanding”—she threatened him gaily with a gem-encrusted forefinger—“if I were to tell you I met a certain person in Paris last week, who talked to me about you?”