“I was told you were to dine here,” said Vansittart, as an obvious opening.
“Lady Hartley was kind enough to ask me, but I had an earlier engagement in Chelsea. I have been dining with the Hawberks—the composer, don’t you know. Sweet little woman, Mrs. Hawberk—so sympathetic. You know them, of course.”
“Only from meeting them at other people’s houses.”
“Ah, you should know Hawberk. He’s a glorious fellow. You must spare me an hour or two to meet him at breakfast some Sunday morning, when Mrs. Vansittart doesn’t want you to go to church with her.”
“I always want him,” said Eve, with a decisive air.
“And does he always go?”
“Always.”
“A model husband. I put down the husbands who attend the morning service among the great army of hen-pecked, together with the husbands who belong to only one rather fogeyish club. But that comes of my demoralized attitude towards the respectabilities. Well, it shall not be a Sunday, but you must meet Hawberk en petit comité before the season is over. He is a very remarkable man. It was he who invented Signora Vivanti, the lady who claimed your acquaintance so effusively to-day.”
“Indeed!” said Vansittart, with a scowl which did not invite further comment; but Sefton was not to be silenced by black looks.
“Did Mr. Hawberk bring Signora Vivanti from Italy?” asked Eve; and Sefton could see that she paled at the mere mention of the singer’s name.