It made the party compact and in proportion; three ladies, with the same number of gentlemen—the set of six—though perhaps in the eyes of the latter their hostess was de trop. Lucas had conceived thoughts about Julia, while his friend saw stars in the blue eyes of Cornelia. All sorted together well enough; Mr Swinton being of course the lion of the evening. This from his being a stranger—an accomplished Englishman. It was but natural courtesy. Again, Mrs Girdwood longed to make known how great a lion he was. But Mr Swinton had sworn her to secrecy.
Over the dinner-table the conversation was carried on without restraint. People of different nations, who speak the same language, have no difficulty in finding a topic. Their respective countries supply them with this. America was talked of; but more England. Mrs Girdwood was going there by the next steamer—state-rooms already engaged. It was but natural she should make inquiries.
“About your hotels in London, Mr Swinton. Of course we’ll have to stop at an hotel. Which do you consider the best?”
“Clawndon, of cawse. Clawndon, in Bond Stweet. Ba all means go there, madam.”
“The Clarendon,” said Mrs Girdwood, taking out her card-case, and pencilling the name upon a card. “Bond Street, you say?”
“Bond Stweet. It’s our fashionable pwomenade, or rather the stweet where our best twadesmen have their shops.”
“We shall go there,” said Mrs Girdwood, registering the address, and returning the card-case to her reticule.
It is not necessary to detail the conversation that followed. It is usually insipid over a dinner-table where the guests are strange to one another; and Mrs Girdwood’s guests came under this category.
For all that, everything went well and even cheerfully, Julia alone at times looking a little abstracted, and so causing some slight chagrin both to Lucas and Swinton.
Now and then, however, each had a glance from those bistre-coloured eyes, that flattered them with hopes for the future.