“I believe she acts in—well, a certain sort of plays.”
A slow smile overspread Leo Ulford’s face and made him look more like a huge boy than ever.
“What certain sort?” he asked. “The sort I’d like?”
“Very probably. But I know nothing of your tastes.”
She did—everything almost. There are a good many Leo Ulfords lounging about London.
“I like anything that’s a bit lively, with no puritanic humbug about it.”
“Well, you surely can’t suppose that there can be any puritanic humbug about Miss Schley or anything she has to do with!”
He glanced again at Pimpernel Schley and then at Lady Holme. The smile on his face became a grin. Then his huge shoulders began to shake gently.
“I do love talking to women,” he said, on the tide of a prolonged chuckle. “When they aren’t deaf.”
Lady Holme still remained perfectly grave.