“Adieu, hydrangeas, adieu, blue, burning South!”
The concert, it seemed, had begun.
“Come chillens, come!”
In the vast drawing-room, the first novelty of the evening—an aria from Sumaïa—had stilled all chatter. Deep-sweet, poignant, the singer’s voice was conjuring Sumaïa’s farewell to the Greek isle of Mitylene, bidding farewell to its gracious women, and to the trees of white, or turquoise, in the gardens of Lesbos.
“Adieu, hydrangeas—”
Hardly a suitable moment, perhaps, to dispute a chair! But neither the Duchess of Wellclose or Mrs. Mouth were creatures easily abashed.
“I pay, an’ I mean to hab it.”
“You can’t; it’s taken!” the duchess returned, nodding meaningly towards the buffet, where the duke could be seen swizzling whisky at the back of the bar.
“Sh’o! Dese white women seem to t’ink dey can hab ebberyt’ing.”