"If only somebody would open a window," murmured Mrs. Verulam distractedly. "Oh, but I forgot; we are in the basement of the club, and there are none."
"Is it really true that the Princess of Galilee is here?"
"Yes, poor thing, in the front row. Oh, Chlo—oh, Mr. Van Adam, if you only knew how I long to be quietly away from all this, sitting in some sweet garden, with the quiet marshes stretching away all round me on every side, and——"
"Oh, not marshes; they are horrible! You should see the swamps in Florida!"
"An English marsh is quite, quite different. Mr. Bush has lived in one all his life at Bungay." She sank her voice on the last romantic word, and breathed a gentle sigh. "He will tell us of his life—of the true, best life—when he comes to Ribton Marches," she added softly. "For he has accepted my invitation in his own dear, characteristic manner. I meant to have told you. I got his letter—or, rather, his postcard—to-night, just before we were starting."
"What did it say?"
"'Coming.—J. Bush.'"
"Isn't that a little short—for an answer to you, I mean?"
"Yes, short and to the point. How much better than filling sheets and sheets of letter-paper with empty phrases and meaningless compliments."
"Yes?" said Chloe rather doubtfully, as she settled her shirt-front, and slightly pulled up her trousers to prevent them getting into "knees." And then her attention was claimed by the Lady Pearl, who murmured in her ear: