“What is the little one thinking about? Do you like those songs? Or don’t they let you have a go at them? I imagine your layout is as heavy as a boiled English pudding!”
Rather confused, Thurley nodded.
“How larky to have you alone! I suppose you had to steal away to me.” She stroked Thurley’s cheek and the girl winced under the soft, sure touch, too practised, suggestive of a claw beneath the velvety fingers.
“It is so pleasant to come, Madame Dagmar—”
“Madame? Lissa! I insist! Why, I’m not your grandmother, silly sweet, years do not matter in our world! What have those disgruntled persons tried to tell you?”
A gong sounded the dinner hour and Lissa led her into a fantastic dining-room where a table groaned under unwholesome goodies.
“Don’t mention banting,” Lissa said, sitting down unceremoniously, reaching for anchovies and caviar. “I adore eating. I don’t believe in denying oneself any of the good things of life. Come, Thurley, pretend you are at home, wherever that is, and have a schoolgirl feast of it. The desserts will be poor because cook is so involved in a breach of promise suit.” With small regard for etiquette, Lissa was “wading in,” as Dan Birge would have said.
Thurley contrasted it with the “family” dinner parties where food was merely the medium of their getting together; where every one talked first and ate last. Not so with Lissa; she had a quick, untidy way of swallowing her food and talking while she did so; she spotted her bodice in revolting fashion, dabbing at the stain with her napkin and saying she ought to be sent to bed!
In fact, Lissa had little time to talk to Thurley until the café noir was served in the salon. Then, uncomfortable from the six-course dinner to which she had done full justice, now dipping into a box of puffy chocolates with nut centers and taking absinthe with practised sips, she turned her rather fleshy face towards Thurley and remarked,