“India!” he cried. “Have you been to India?”
“Yes, have you? My father and I passed last cold weather there.”
Warned by a sudden expansion of Mrs. Devar’s prominent eyes, he gave a quick turn to a dangerous topic, since it was in Calcutta that the gallant ex-captain of Horton’s Horse had “borrowed” fifty pounds from him. Naturally, the lady omitted the telltale prefix to her son’s rank, but it was unquestionably true that the British army had dispensed with his services.
“I was only thinking that acquaintance with the East, Miss Vanrenen, would prepare you for the mysterious workings of Kismet,” said Medenham lightly. “When I came across Simmonds this morning I was bewailing the fact that my respected aunt had fallen ill and could not accompany me to-day. May I offer you the luncheon which I provided for her?”
He withdrew the wicker basket from its nook beneath the front seat; before his astonished guests could utter a protest, it was opened, and he was deftly unpacking the contents.
“But that is your luncheon,” protested Cynthia, finding it incumbent on her to say something by way of polite refusal.
“And his aunt’s, my dear.”
In those few words Mrs. Devar conveyed skepticism as to the aunt and ready acceptance of the proffered fare; but Medenham paid no heed; he had discovered that the napkins, cutlery, even the plates, bore the family crest. The silver, too, was of a quality that could not fail to evoke comment.
“Well, here goes!” he growled under his breath. “If I come a purler it will not be for the first time where women are concerned.”
He laughed as he produced some lobster in aspic and a chicken.