They had not been settled long in their hotel when the telephone-bell rang.
Mrs. Winfield answered the call, since her husband was belatedly shaving himself.
The telephone operator said, “M’ Skemble to speak to M’ Swinfield.”
Mrs. Winfield’s heart began to skip. She answered, feebly, “This is Mrs. Winfield.”
The operator snapped, “Go ahead,” and another voice appeared, putting extraordinary music into a lyrical “Hello!”
Mrs. Winfield answered: “Hello! This is Mrs. Winfield.”
“Oh, how do you do? This is Mrs. Kemble, Sheila’s mother. Your son asked her to call you up as soon as you got in, but she is rehearsing and asked me to.”
“That’s very n-nice of you.”
“Why, thank you. Your son probably explained to you that Sheila is a horribly busy young woman. I know you are busy, too. You’ll be doing a lot of shopping, I presume. I should like to call on you as one helpless parent on another, but my husband and I are leaving in a day or two for one of our awful tours to the Coast. The ocean is so beautiful that I wondered if you wouldn’t be willing to run out here and take dinner with us to-night.”
Mrs. Winfield’s wits were so scattered that she had not the strength even to improvise another engagement. She was not an agile liar. She murmured, feebly: “It would be very nice. Thank you.”