“Come and sit with us,” I heard Charlie call out, and I saw a lady with a boy of Charlie’s age making towards us. Charlie stood up and handed the lady to a seat. They were introduced to me, Iris Carey and Basil Locke. I was startled out of my boots almost, as I heard my companion say, “Miss Travers is from England.”
“Good Lord,” I mused. “What does this mean?”
The waiter now appeared with our ices. “Ice cream good for you?” enquired Charlie of them, and being so assured he repeated his earlier order.
The two new-comers were evidently on the most familiar terms with Charlie. I was ignored for the moment, and an animated conversation sprang up in which each addressed the other by the Christian name. The conversation bore upon the Hunt Club and motoring; and was doubtless a measure of high life. At a pause Miss Carey turned to me and asked.
“Have you been long in Canada?”
“Some time, and I like it immensely.”
This seemed to please her; so my embarrassment passed.
“English people always accuse us of asking them how they like our country: you have evidently learned to forestall the question,” she remarked. These words seemed to me surprising from one whose conversation a moment before had been so flippant. I was glad she did not continue that line, but came under the necessity of answering Charlie Lien. For one thing my embarrassment was great, and for another I wished to observe her.
Irish Carey is a tall, willowy girl with a long neck. She is dark and her complexion very bright. Her cheeks were undoubtedly rouged. Her forehead is high, bold and very white; her mouth small as is her chin. How I envied her her command of chatter. I suppose the ability to chatter is a gift, I find it impossible even to transcribe it, so how can I hope to copy it?
In Basil Locke, I observed a slight youth with a pale and narrow face. He had a deliberate way of speaking, a drawl. And he did not have much to say, the chatter being chiefly between Miss Carey and Charlie.