“You can say anything you like to me, Madame Pinto. Political, racial, religious... By the way, half these people are Catholics, you know....”
He broke off, as the door opened to admit Barbara and George Oakleigh. Eric felt his features stiffening again, as she looked round to identify her hostess and came forward with an exaggerated apology. She had always dominated any room that she entered; she dominated this one. While she paused a studied moment in the door-way, every one involuntarily turned to look at her; the comfortable clatter of conversation grew still and died away, to be succeeded by blurred cries of welcome: “Babs!” “Dear Barbara, how sweet you look to-night!” “Babs darling!” Eric had stood a dozen times, like George Oakleigh, a pace behind her, as she came into the room; like him, a little embarrassed to be late; like him, exulting in the theatrical magnificence of her entry....
Ivy touched his arm and whispered:
“Is that Lady Barbara? I’ve only seen her in the distance before. Eric, how fascinating she is!”
Barbara brought her apology to an end and looked for her chair. Her eyes met Eric’s, and, as she passed him, she shook hands and murmured, “How are you?” There was a final spurt of welcome from the men on either side of her, as she sat down; and Eric tried to remember what he had been discussing before her interruption.
Madame Pinto had lost no time in establishing him as her confidant and adviser; with her second glass of champagne, matter-of-course friendliness warmed to embarrassingly out-spoken coquetry.
“You are clever and nice,” she proclaimed resonantly, darting a swift glance from under darkened eye-lashes and touching his hand with sparkling, ring-laden fingers. “Those two, now? Who are they?”
“George Oakleigh and his wife,” Eric answered in an undertone. “He used to be in the House—in Parliament, you know. She was Lady Barbara Neave, daughter of Lord Crawleigh, our Governor-General in Canada at one time, then Viceroy of India. She’s related to almost everybody here—first cousin of Carstairs, first cousin of Lady Amy Loring....”
Madame Pinto nodded vehemently until her diamonds quivered and flashed.
“I remember! I met her at lunch with Lady Poynter. And, also, I have heard of her,” she answered. “That young man in your Ministry of Foreign Affairs—”