“Mrs. Amp!” I said. “Mrs. Amp? Who was Mrs. Amp?”
Dwight-Rankin said: “Rheumatism and Roosevelt, you’ve never heard of Mrs. Amp! Nor of the death? Nor of the Lady Surplice?”
“Lady Surplice?” I said. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of the Countess of Surplice! And how is she?”
“She can’t be at all well,” said Dwight-Rankin. “She’s dead. Tummy trouble, they said. By the way, one doesn’t say ‘the Countess of’ Surplice. One says ‘Lady Surplice.’ Do you mind?”
“Not in the least,” I said.
“Then don’t say it or write it, will you?” begged Dwight-Rankin. “All you writers are very vague about your titles. No, not vague—you are malinspired. It puts people against you, I assure you. I often had a mind to tell Miss Marie Corelli about that, but I never had a chance.”
I said: “You see, Dwight-Rankin, I never hear any of these things, as I am not in society.”
“That’s all right,” said Dwight-Rankin. “Hang on to me.”
“Waiter!” I said. “Two Martinis, please.”
“Dry,” said Dwight-Rankin. “Dry, waiter. And with a dash.”