“Can’t think why you’re so keen on foreigners,” Noel remarked; then said in his merciless way, “the only Englishman you ever had much to do with you ran away from.”
Connie was quite soberly dressed in a dark blue coat and skirt, relieved by furs, hat, shoes and gloves of her favorite gray. She was no more made up than most of the other women who passed them. It was her forty-eighth birthday, and to celebrate it they were going to lunch at Claridge’s later.
“Foreigners interest me so much more,” she replied. “They understand women.”
“Too damn well,” agreed Noel. “Besides, the sort of men you mean only understand one sort of woman. They wouldn’t understand Judy, for instance.”
Connie smiled deprecatingly and put her head on one side.
“Well, as to that, I’m not sure I understand her myself. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed in Judy.”
“You can’t appreciate her, Connie. That’s why.”
“Perhaps.” No one ever took offense at Noel. “To my mind she isn’t feminine enough. She’s handsome, but she has no magnetism, no allure.”
“Nice English girls don’t go in for allure,” Noel said.
“Pooh!” She laughed rather scornfully. “Because they don’t know how.”