The twinkle was alight in Captain Fanshawe’s eyes. It shone more brightly still as he added, “Everybody turns up sooner or later in the Duchess’s box. Have you happened to meet—the Prince!”
For a moment Claire groped for the connection, then dimpled merrily.
“Not yet. No! but I am hoping—”
The waiter approached with plates of chicken in aspic, and more rolls of crisp browned bread. Claire sent a thought to Cecil finishing a box of sardines, with her book propped up against the cocoa jug. The Cinderella rôle was forgotten while her eyes roved around, studying the silver dishes on the various tables.
“When you were a small boy, Captain Fanshawe, did you go out to parties?”
Captain Fanshawe knitted his brows. This charming girl was a little difficult to follow conversationally; she leapt from one subject to another with disconcerting agility.
“Er—pardon me! Is that question put to me in my—er—private, or imaginary capacity?”
“Private, of course. But naturally you did. Did you have pockets?”
“To the best of my remembrance I was disguised as a midshipmite, with white duck trousers of a prodigious width. They used to crackle, I remember. There was room for a dozen pockets.”
Claire laid her arms on the table, so that her face drew nearer his own. Her voice fell to a stage whisper—