By luncheon‑time Margot Beste‑Chetwynde was tired. 'Thank heavens, that's the last of them, she said. 'Were you terribly bored, my angel?
'Margot, you're wonderful. You ought to have been an empress.
'Don't say that you were a Christian slave, dearest.
'It never occurred to me, said Paul.
'There's a young man just like your friend Potts on the other side of the street, said Margot at the window. 'And my dear, he's picked up the last of those poor girls, the one who wanted to take her children and her brother with her.
'Then it can't be Potts, said Paul lazily. 'I say, Margot, there was one thing I couldn't understand. Why was it that the less experience those chorus‑girls had, the more you seemed to want them? You offered much higher wages to the ones who said they'd never had a job before.
'Did I, darling? I expect it was because I feel so absurdly happy.
At the time this seemed quite a reasonable explanation, but, thinking the matter over, Paul had to admit to himself that there had been nothing noticeably light‑hearted in Margot's conduct of her business.
'Let's have luncheon out to‑day, said Margot. 'I'm tired of this house.
They walked across Berkeley Square together in the sunshine. A footman in livery stood on the steps of one of the houses. A hatter's van, emblazoned with the royal arms, trotted past them on Hay Hill, two cockaded figures upright upon the box. A very great lady, bolstered up in an old‑fashioned landaulette, bowed to Margot with an inclination she had surely learned in the Court of the Prince Consort. All Mayfair seemed to throb with the heart of Mr Arlen.