“How is it that you come to have such glorious gray eyes?” This was said enthusiastically.
“Do not let that iced soufflet pass, Mr. Percival; it is too good to snub so unmercifully.”
“What a facer!” thought the Foreign Office clerk as he called back the servant with the entrée in question.
Miss Devereux did not understand any gentleman’s gushing in this manner upon an acquaintance of twenty minutes. If young ladies would only ice menkind occasionally, instead of permitting them to say what they will, their sway would be absolutely without limit; but, alas! the girls of to-day are too—but I will not be cynical.
“What part of Ireland do you come from, Miss ——?” He has not heard her name, and mumbles something unintelligible to fill up the gap.
“Connemara.”
“I know some people living out there.”
“Indeed! As I know everybody living out there, I am quite sure we shall discover mutual friends.”
Now, Mr. Eugene Percival, not having the remotest idea of who Miss Devereux might be, imagines that this is a very good opportunity for being very amusing, and he accordingly plunges in medias res without more ado.
“The name is Devereux,” he said.