“That woman there—in the green velvet! The fourth table.”
“I see her.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“Who?” (I remembered Lady Dee’s maxim about lying!)
“Sylvia Castleman!” whispered Claire. (She always referred to her thus—seeming to say, “I’m as much van Tuiver as she is!”)
“Are you sure?” I asked—in order to say something.
“I’ve seen her a score of times. I seem to be always running into her. That’s Freddie Atkins she’s talking to.”
“Indeed!” said I.
“I know most of the men I see her with. But I have to walk by as if I’d never seen them. A queer world we live in, isn’t it?”
I could assent cordially to that proposition. “Listen,” I broke in, quickly. “Have you got anything to do? If not, come down to the Royalty and have tea with me.”