“In the mind?” asked Craven.
“No—no—in the—they cause indigestion, in fact. How poor Adela Sellingworth must have hated it!”
“I don’t think she did. She seemed quite at home. Besides, she has been to many of the Paris cafes. She told me so.”
“It must have been a long time ago. And in Paris it is all so different. And you sat with them?”
Craven recounted the tale of the previous evening. When he came to the Cafe Royal suggestion the world’s governess looked really outraged.
“Adela Sellingworth at the Cafe Royal!” he said. “How could Beryl Van Tuyn? And with a Bolshevik, a Turkish refugee—from Smyrna too!”
“There were the Georgians for chaperons.”
“Georgians!” said Braybrooke, with almost sharp vivacity. “I really hate that word. We are all subjects of King George. No one has a right to claim a monopoly of the present reign. I—waiter, bring me two more dry Martinis, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was I saying? Oh, yes—about that preposterous claim of certain groups and coteries! If anybody is a Georgian we are all Georgians together. I am a Georgian, if it comes to that.”