“I wish,” said Lady Rotherfield presently to Greetland in a confidential corner, “one knew exactly what to do about poor Countess Alexia. It is so very awkward. What line are people taking? Do advise me.”
“Lady Kilvinton calls,” the smart authority declared, somewhat with the air of a dogmatic stockbroker advising a client as to her investments. “And yesterday when I was in Green Street I saw two carriages outside the house. I was on the other side, but I think—I’m pretty sure—the Ramplingham crest was on one of them.”
“H’m!” Lady Rotherfield pursed her lips meditatively. “You don’t go there yourself?” she asked shrewdly.
He shrugged. “I haven’t had a moment to go anywhere, except where I have been booked; and then, as it is, have been able to keep only half my engagements,” he replied, with weary plausibility. “You know, dear lady, what a rush there always is towards the end of the season. Oh, no; I don’t mean to drop the von Rohnburgs. Count Prosper is a very decent fellow; and I always liked Lady Alexia. She is so interesting, and her breeding is perfect, which is more than one can say for all foreigners. That appalling Lady Beeman, for instance, née Goldknecht, who, I should say, came out of the Judengasse originally. No; when one comes back from Homburg and the country-house round, which, by the way, promises to be severely trying this autumn, I shall certainly give our friends in Green Street a call. They will hardly expect a busy man to do more this side of November than leave a card.”
“Then you think,” Lady Rotherfield said, with a certain clearing of doubt, “that one may venture to take them up again?”
“I see no risk now, dear lady, or I would not let you do it,” the cotillon-expert assured her, this time with the air of a doctor pronouncing a patient at last free from infection. “You see, Herriard is bound to come on; he is quite pointed out and listened to in the House; and the Countess is bound to have a large dot. Yes; they will have to be reckoned with when they have settled down, and the nine days’ wonder is conveniently forgotten. With her style and nous theirs is quite likely to be one of the smart houses to go to, and if he got to the front Bench her receptions might attain the dignity of a salon.”
Lady Rotherfield was beginning to wonder whether she had not sat too long on the fence. “You really think that?” she murmured uncomfortably. Then went on almost beseechingly, “Mr. Greetland, you know one hates to do the wrong thing. Do you think it would look odd if one sent these dear people a card for next Tuesday? You know I am having some music; Marzoni has promised to sing, and I am trying to get Tarbosch; only these tiresome musical people give themselves such provoking airs. Is it too late?”
Greetland appeared to reflect. “H’m! How long have the cards been out?”
“Nearly a month,” the lady answered, with a little rueful grimace. “One has to make refusals as difficult as possible in these days of competition.”
“Just so,” Greetland assented. “Poor Mrs. Pelham Steinthal never sends her cards out less than six weeks ahead.”