“Madam,” said I, “I am not coming to your dinner.”
“You are,” she retorted. “Paula Varick will be there. You'd crawl to San Francisco to see Paula.”
“That's the very reason. I've got a substitute.” And I explained.
The Bonnie Lassie, who is an inveterate romanticist, was delighted. “I'll have him take her in,” she said. “No, I can't do that. The new Ambassador to Spain is to take her in. He shall sit on her left.”
“When you present him, introduce her as Miss Mumbleplum or something inarticulate and non-committal of that sort. She won't know his name, of course. Let's see if they'll discover.”
“And you accuse me of fixing up dramatic situations,” said the Bonnie Lassie scornfully, for she has never quite forgiven my comments upon her management of the affair between Ethel Bennington and the Little Red Doctor, which was so nearly ruined by the hard, prosaic fact of a toothache. “You're worse than an old maid. But you may come to the dinner just the same. I don't mind an extra man.”
So I went to the dinner, and a very wonderful dinner it was, as all the dinners in the Bonnie Lassie's house are. Mr. Charles Trent was very much present, looking typically American with his severely correct clothes, and big, graceful figure, until you noticed his eyes, which weren't American at all, or anything else but individual. Miss Paula Varick was also very much present, looking—well, looking as only Paula can look, to the utter wreck and ruin of the peace of mankind's mind. In presenting Carlo to Miss Mumbleplum (as pre-arranged) the hostess gave them a lead by saying:—
“Mr. Trent can tell you all about your water-rights. He's a sort of magic lord of the dry desert.”
“A baron of sand and cactus,” said Trent, smiling. But the new Ambassador to Spain arrived just then, and nothing more was said.
At the first opportunity afforded by the diplomat, Miss Varick turned to the guest on her left.