“Not so unhappy as I have been for the last half hour,” he said, taking her hand and holding it. “What is it?”
“I’m dreadfully afraid I’m a man’s woman. Do you think I am?”
He could not help smiling as he looked into her solemn eyes.
“I do indeed. Why should you be upset about it?”
“I don’t know. Lady Cardington’s been saying things—and I met a rather abominable little person at lunch, a little person like a baby that’s been about a great deal in a former state, and altogether—Let’s have tea.”
“By all means.”
“And now soothe me, Robin. I’m dreadfully strung up. Soothe me. Tell me, I’m an everybody’s woman and that I shall never be de trop in the world—not even when I’m fifty-eight.”
CHAPTER VI
THE success of Pimpernel Schley in London was great and immediate, and preceded her appearance upon the stage. To some people, who thought they knew their London, it was inexplicable. Miss Schley was pretty and knew how to dress. These facts, though of course denied by some, as all facts in London are, were undeniable. But Miss Schley had nothing to say. She was not a brilliant talker, as so many of her countrywomen are. She was not vivacious in manner, except on rare occasions. She was not interested in all the questions of the day. She was not—a great many things. But she was one thing.