“Why?” he asked, taking the glass of Kummel which the waiter had brought and setting it down on a table by him.
“Aren’t you a shy—er—beast?”
He stared at her calmly for a moment, and then said:
“I say, you’re too sharp, Lady Holme.”
He turned his head towards Pimpernel Schley, who was sitting a little way off with her soft, white chin tucked well in, looking steadily down into a cup half full of Turkish coffee and speaking to nobody.
“Who’s that girl?” he asked.
“That’s Miss Pimpernel Schley. A pretty name, isn’t it?”
“Is it? An American of course.”
“Of course.”
“What cheek they have? What’s she do?”