“A passing visit, or for a period? I ask because I am going there myself.”
“Oh, how nice! I am glad I have met you. I mean to remain at Maloja until the end of August.”
“Quite the right time. The rest of Switzerland is unbearable in August. You will find the hotel rather full. The Burnham-Joneses are there,—the tennis players, you know,—and General and Mrs. Wragg and their family, and the de la Veres, nominally husband and wife,—a most charming couple individually. Have you met the de la Veres? No? Well, don’t be unhappy on Edith’s account if Reginald flirts with you. She likes it.”
“But perhaps I might not like it,” laughed Helen.
“Ah, Reginald has such fascinating manners!” A sigh seemed to deplore the days of long ago, when Reginald’s fascination might have displayed itself on her account.
Again there was a break in the flow of talk, and Helen began to take an interest in the scenery. Not to be balked, her inquisitor searched in a portmonnaie attached to her left wrist with a strap, and produced a card.
“We may as well know each other’s names,” she cooed affably. “Here is my card.”
Helen read, “Mrs. H. de Courcy Vavasour, Villa Menini, Nice.”
“I am sorry,” she said, with a friendly smile that might have disarmed prejudice, “but in the hurry of my departure from London I packed my cards in my registered baggage. My name is Helen Wynton.”
The eyeglasses went up once more.