“No, no! This is my little treat to Lady Sellingworth. She has never been here before.”
Craven went round to the musicians and carried out his directions. As he did so he saw adoring looks of comprehension come into their dark faces, and, turning, he caught a wonderful smile that was meant for them flickering on the soft lips of Miss Van Tuyn. That smile was as provocative, as definitely full of the siren quality, as if it had dawned for the only lover, instead of for three humble Italians, “hairdressers in the daytime,” as Miss Van Tuyn explained to Craven while she poured out his coffee.
“I often come here,” she added. “You’re surprised, I can see.”
“I must say I am,” said Craven. “I thought your beat lay rather in the direction of the Carlton, the Ritz, and Claridge’s.”
“You see how little he knows me!” she said, turning to Lady Sellingworth.
“Beryl does not always tread beaten paths,” said Lady Sellingworth to Craven.
“I hate beaten paths. One meets all the dull people on them, the people who hope they are walking where everyone walks. Beaten paths are like the front at Brighton on a Sunday morning. What do you say to our coffee, dearest?”
“It is the best I have drunk for a long while outside my own house,” Lady Sellingworth answered.
Then she turned to Craven.
“Are you really going to smoke a Toscana?”