She had an excellent cook who had been with her since her marriage, and the little dinner was irreproachable. La Planta, an epicure to his fingertips, had realized this at once, and towards the end of the meal he began to feel at peace with the world at large.
“It is awfully good of you to have invited me to a nice, friendly little dinner like this,” he remarked presently, looking his hostess straight in the eyes across the table. “I don’t like big dinner parties, you know, and was half afraid you might have a lot of people to-night.”
“I never give big dinner parties if I can help it,” Cora answered, “though one has to sometimes. Like you, I prefer an informal little gathering, just one or two friends with whom one can exchange ideas. So many people are colorless, don’t you find? And dull people bore me to death. Let me pass you the port.”
It was ’48 port which had belonged to her late husband. La Planta poured himself out another glass, and presently his gaze became fixed upon the widow. It had never struck him before, he thought, what a pretty woman she was.
“When are we going to see your charming friend again?” Yootha presently said carelessly. “I do think her so attractive.”
“Which charming friend is that?”
“Why, Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson, of course. Who else could it be?”
At once La Planta was on the alert. The words flashed back into his partly bemused brain: “Mrs. Hartsilver and her friend Yootha Hagerston are making inquiries about me now. Do you know that they have gone so far as to instruct a personal inquiry agency to find out all about me?”
Could that be the reason he had been invited to dine? Were they going to try to find out from him something about Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson, though perhaps with greater tact than Preston had displayed?
He pulled himself together, and answered: