"Then he'll get lots of sleep here," said she. "Oh, do tell me the name of that pretty girl who came with you! I never can catch a name when I am introduced to a person."
"A Miss Rossignol—she's a friend of uncle's—she's French."
"And the dear old lady is her mother, I suppose?"
"Yes. She writes books."
"An authoress?"
"Yes—at least, I believe she translates books. She is awfully clever."
"Well played!" cried Miss Squire Simpson, breaking from the subject into an ecstasy at a stroke made by one of the flannelled fools—then resuming:
"She must be clever. And are you all staying here together?"
"Yes, at the Rose Hotel."
"You will find it a dear little place," said she, unconscious of any double entendre, "and you will get lots of tennis down here. Do you fish?"