‘Impossible! Can’t be the same!’ said some one, feebly.
‘Can’t say, I’m sure. But it’s the same sort of face, and the girl, when you provided her with champagne, used to recite splendidly.’
‘How long was this ago, Lagardère?’ asked Crieff, leaning over towards the other table.
‘About twelve years. The date is fixed in my memory, because it was the year I fought the duel with the Austrian general at Vienna.’
Crieff smiled.
‘And if,’ he said, ‘we put down Miss Vere’s age at four-and-twenty (I believe she’s scarcely twenty-two), she must have been, at the period you name, exactly twelve years old.’
A general laugh greeted this retort; but the journalist was not at all disconcerted.
‘You see these sort of women are all so much alike,’ he drawled. ‘I’ve seen the same type of face in the harem at Stamboul, among the nautch-dancers of India, and at the Jardin Mabille.’
Sutherland, who had with difficulty kept his temper during this little scene, now turned his dusky eyes full on Lagardère.
‘What do you mean by these sort of women?’