“I’m lucky enough to be beside you!” he said. “This is a rare occasion. One never meets you now.”
He sat down on her right. The place on her left was vacant. People were still coming in, talking, laughing, finding their seats. The Duchess of Wellingborough, who was exactly opposite to Lady Sellingworth, leaned forward to speak to her.
“Adela . . . Adela!”
“Yes? How are you, Cora?”
“Very well, as I always am. Isn’t Lavallois a marvel?”
“He is certainly very clever.”
“You are proud of it, my dear. Have you heard what the Bolshevist envoy said to the Prime Minister when—”
But at this moment someone spoke to the duchess, who was already beginning to laugh at the story she was intending to tell and Lady Sellingworth was aware of a movement on her left. She felt as if she blushed, though no colour came into her face.
“How are you, Lady Sellingworth?”
She had not turned her head, but now she did, and met Craven’s hard, uncompromising blue eyes and deliberately smiling lips.