Helen, in despair, nodded imploringly at Stephen. He smiled, lowered his cigarette, and addressed their volatile guest. “What a charming frock that is, Mrs. Hilary.”
The delightful comedienne threw him a sharp look—and melted. “Do you think so really?”
“It’s most becoming,” he said enthusiastically.
A smile creamed sunnily over the petulant, delicate face. “I think it does suit me,” she said joyfully.
They all gave a sigh of relief.
“Who made it for you, Angela?” Helen asked hurriedly.
“Clarice—you know, in Albemarle Street.” The cure was complete.
But Helen repeated the dose. “She does make adorable things. I am going to try her. You know Mrs. Montague goes to her, and she says——”
But what Mrs. Montague said was never told, for at the Verona-like name Angela Hilary sprang to her feet with a scream of “Good Heavens!”
“Why, what’s up?” Hugh exclaimed.