“Oh, is that Mrs. Marten?” chimed in downright Plainville. “Last Sunday’s papers whooped her up as the prize beauty of Newport this summer, and I guess they got nearer the truth than usual. She’s a sure winner.”
“Did I hear her mention Mrs. Van Ralten?” inquired Dacre.
“Yes, her hostess tonight, I believe.”
“Van Ralten and Marten hurried off together to the Caspian last week. They are interested in the oil wells at Baku.”
Cymbals seemed to clash in Power’s brain, and he heard his own voice saying in a subdued and colorless staccato, “I am sorry I did not meet her sooner. I leave tomorrow.”
Dacre looked at him curiously; but the wine had arrived, a choice vintage of the middle ’70’s, and the Mexican was lifting his glass.
“El sabio muda conseja; el necio no,” he quoted.
The phrase was so apt that Power glanced at the speaker with marked doubt; whereupon the blond Norwegian asked what the señor had said.
“He told us that the wise man changes his mind, but the fool does not,” translated Power.
“Gee whizz!” cried Plainville. “It’s a pity he can’t give out the text in good American; for he talks horse sense most all the time. If I had a peach like Mrs. Marten callin’ me ‘Derry,’ damn if I’d quit for a month!”