He ran through the list. One or two of the prospective guests she knew personally, others by name; as to the personalities of those unknown to her she made polite inquiries. So unwontedly sugared were her phrases that Quixtus, simple man, forgot her outburst.
“You haven’t given a dinner-party like this for a long time.”
“Not for many years. Of course I have had men’s dinners—chiefly my colleagues in the Anthropological Society. But this is a new venture.”
“I wish it every success,” said Clementina, mendaciously. “The only wrong note in it would be myself. Oh yes, my dear Ephraim,” she said, anticipating his protest, “I’m not made for such a galaxy of fashion. I tread upon daintily covered corns. I’m a savage—all right in my wigwam with those I care for—but no use in a drawing-room. You must leave me out of it.”
Quixtus, shocked and hurt, turned and put out both hands in appeal.
“My dearest friend, how can you say such things? You positively must come.”
“My dearest friend,” she replied, forcing her grim lips into a smile, “I positively won’t.”
And that was the end of the matter. She parted from him cordially, and went home with more devils tearing her to pieces with redhot pincers than had ever been dreamed of in Quixtus’s demonology.
CHAPTER XXII
Romney Place slumbered in the afternoon sunshine. Most of the blinds of the Early-Victorian houses were drawn, symbols of quietude within. A Persian cat, walking across the roadway, stopped in the middle, after the manner of cats, and leisurely made her toilette. A milk-cart progressed discreetly from door to door, and the milkman handed the cans to hands upstretched from areas with unclattering and non-flirtatious punctilio. When he had finished his round and disappeared by the church, the street was empty for a moment. The cat resumed her journey and sat on a doorstep blinking in the sun. Presently a foxy-faced man, shabbily clad, entered this peaceful scene, and walked slowly down the pavement.