“Always late, my dear Violet,” he said, “but better late than never.”
Then Luçue bustled up, and took the situation in hand.
“Now, Jackson, you mustn’t monopolise one of the two charming young women in the room. I want my new friend, Moreno, to sit next his half-compatriot, because, as you know, although his father was Spanish, his mother was English.”
The pretty Englishwoman bowed, and they took their seats together at the flower and fruit-laden table. Luçue, probably through inadvertence had not mentioned the woman’s name.
Moreno stole cautious glances at his companion. She was certainly very charming to look at; her age he guessed at anything from five and twenty to thirty. Where had he seen her before? Her face was quite familiar to him.
And then recollection came back to him. A big bazaar in the Albert Hall, stalls with dozens of charming women. And one particular stall where this particular woman was serving, and he had been struck with her, and inquired her name of a brother journalist, who was a great expert on the social side. He turned to her, speaking in English.
“Our good friend Luçue was rather perfunctory in his introduction. He mentioned my name, but he did not give yours. Am I not right in saying that I am speaking to Mrs Hargrave?”
Violet Hargrave shot at him a glance that was slightly tinged with suspicion.
“I think we had better talk in French, if you don’t mind—it is the rule here. It might annoy others if we didn’t. Where did you know me, and what do you know about me?”
Moreno felt on sure ground at once. He was dealing with a woman of the world. In two minutes, he could put her at her ease.