“They will think I love you,” said Miss Vulliamy, as soon as she could
speak.
“Remembering that tiara,” said Pardoner, “they’ll say I’m doting. I
didn’t know they made such expensive things. But for my brain-wave about
that dressing-case, I should have been left standing.”
In a shaking voice Sarah demanded luncheon.
“Not that I want to presume upon your hospitality, but we’ve many things
to discuss,” she concluded coldly.
“On condition,” said Pardoner, “that you do not drink grenadine, I’ll do
you a treat.”
“I don’t see why,” said Miss Vulliamy, “I should give up my staple
drink.”
Virgil shuddered.
“I’ll try and explain some day. For one thing it’s bad for the heart.”
“It’s never affected mine,” said Sarah.
“No,” said Virgil, “I daresay it hasn’t. To be frank, I was thinking of
my own. But never mind. Give it a miss till we’re married—a sort of
interim injunction. We can argue it out later.”
“Very well,” said Sarah reluctantly.
That the table which was offered them at Claridge’s should lie directly
between one presided over by Mrs. Closeley Dore and another at which
Mrs. Sheraton Forbes was entertaining two stylish Americans was sheer
good fortune. . . . . Virgil and Sarah had the time of their lives.
Placidly to browse under their enemies’ noses was delightful enough. The
reflection that the more they vented their good humour, the higher must
rise the fever of indignation raging on either side, made the two
positively festive. . . . When the two Americans asked their hostess the
identity of ‘that most attractive couple,’ and seemed surprised to learn
that they were not of the Blood Royal, Mrs. Sheraton Forbes’ cup began
to overflow. . . .