"That old crow is an absolute terror!" observed Ulrica to me in an undertone, and out of sheer devilry she at once commenced a conversation with this rejuvenated hag, who, as we learned later, was an exportation from one of the London suburbs.
The conversation, started by Ulrica and continued by myself, proved most amusing to us both. The old woman whose name was Blackett, had just enough to live upon, we afterwards discovered, but came each year to the pension in order to cut a dash as a grande dame. Her fingers were covered with paste jewels, and her finery was all of that cheap and tawdry kind which affects the nerves as well as the eyes.
"Oh, yes!" she said, in a carefully cultivated voice, intended to show good breeding, "if this is your first visit to the Riviera, you'll be quite charmed—everyone is charmed with it. As for myself—" and she sighed,—"I have been here each year for I don't know how long."
"And there is lots to see?"
"Lots. Only you must drive, you know. I myself drive at all hours of the day, and when the moon is up I go for moonlight drives into the mountains."
How romantic, I thought.
"I have my own coachman, you know," she added. "I keep him all the year round."
She had led up to the conversation merely in order to inform us of her generosity.
So throughout the meal, which occupied nearly two hours, by reason of inadequate waiting, we continued to draw her out, humour her egotism, and cause her to make a most ridiculous display of herself, until at last, my sentiment changing, I felt genuinely sorry for her.
"Certainly," I remarked to Ulrica as we left the table, "this is the most extraordinary collection of tabbies I've ever met."