Mrs. Rivington was collecting eyes by this time, and Claudia rose. In the drawing-room, an apartment so crowded with furniture and bric-à-brac of various periods that it suggested a well-dusted shop in Wardour Street, her hostess seized on her.
“I was glad to see you getting on so well with Mr. Littleton. He wanted to meet you. He told you about the ‘Woman of the East’? Quite romantic, I think. He ought to fall in love with you.”
“To serve as an advertisement is hardly romantic, surely? I rank with the monkey advertising soap and a starved cat extolling a certain milk.”
“Oh! how funny you are—and so cold and critical! Now I should be thrilled. But you’re not a bit romantic, anyone can see that. Oh! Claudia, is it true about your brother?”
“My brother? What is it?” She wished Mrs. Rivington’s eyes would not wander so restlessly over her person.
“Why don’t you know? They say he has married ‘The Girlie Girl!’”
“Who on earth is ‘The Girlie Girl’?” laughed Claudia, sipping her liqueur. “It sounds like a cross between a barrel organ and a seaside pier.”
“Yes, doesn’t it? But don’t you know her—haven’t you seen her picture on the hoardings? She was playing at the Pavilion last week. I don’t like her style myself, but I suppose most men would think her pretty. Not, of course, that you can tell. Paint goes such a long way, doesn’t it?”
“A music-hall artiste? What an absurd rumour!”