The desired information was given her by a young gentleman in spotless white flannels, whose general toilet effect suggested solicitude rather than anxiety.
“What an odious young cub Bertie Dykson has become!” pronounced Mrs. Dole, remembering suddenly that Bertie was a favourite with Mrs. Hatch-Mallard. “The young men of to-day are not what they used to be twenty years ago.”
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard; “twenty years ago Bertie Dykson was just two years old, and you must expect some difference in appearance and manner and conversation between those two periods.”
“Do you know,” said Mrs. Dole, confidentially, “I shouldn’t be surprised if that was intended to be clever.”
“Have you any one interesting coming to stay with you, Mrs. Norbury?” asked the chinchilla voice, hastily; “you generally have a house party at this time of year.”
“I’ve got a most interesting woman coming,” said Mrs. Norbury, who had been mutely struggling for some chance to turn the conversation into a safe channel; “an old acquaintance of mine, Ada Bleek—”
“What an ugly name,” said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard.
“She’s descended from the de la Bliques, an old Huguenot family of Touraine, you know.”
“There weren’t any Huguenots in Touraine,” said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard, who thought she might safely dispute any fact that was three hundred years old.
“Well, anyhow, she’s coming to stay with me,” continued Mrs. Norbury, bringing her story quickly down to the present day, “she arrives this evening, and she’s highly clairvoyante, a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, you now, and all that sort of thing.”