“Where have you two been?” he continued, with a directness that was almost rude.
“Dining with the Holmes,” answered Pierce.
“That ruffian! Did she sing?”
“Yes, twice.”
“Wish I’d heard her. Here am I playing Saul without a David. Many people there?”
“Several. Lady Cardington—”
“That white-haired enchantress! There’s a Niobe—weeping not for her children, she never had any, but for her youth. She is the religion of half Mayfair, though I don’t know whether she’s got a religion. Men who wouldn’t look at her when she was sixteen, twenty-six, thirty-six, worship her now she’s sixty. And she weeps for her youth! Who else?”
“Mrs. Wolfstein.”
“A daughter of Israel; coarse, intelligent, brutal to her reddened finger-tips. I’d trust her to judge a singer, actor, painter, writer. But I wouldn’t trust her with my heart or half a crown.”
“Lady Manby.”