“I’m told it’s simply swarming!” she impenitently said.
“Oh Rosa, Rosa....”
“And if you doubt it at all, here is an account direct from the Ritz itself,” her Excellency replied, singling out a letter from among the rest: “It is from dear old General Sir Trotter-Stormer. He says: ‘I am the only guest here. I must say, however, the attendance is beyond all praise, more soigné and better than I’ve ever known it to be, but after what you told me, dear friend, I feel distinctly uncomfortable when the hour for bye-bye comes!’”
“Pish; what evidence, pray, is that?”
“I regard it as of the very first importance! Sir Trotter admits—a distinguished soldier admits, his uneasiness; and who knows, he is so brave about concealing his woes—his two wives left him!—what he may not have patiently and stoically endured?”
“Less I am sure, my dear, than I of late in listening sometimes to you.”
“I will write I think and press him for a more detailed report....”
The Ambassador turned away.
“She should no more be trusted with ink than a child with firearms!” he declared, addressing himself with studious indirectness to a garden-snail.
Lady Something blinked.