'Mr Pickering!'
The thwarted lover came to life with a start.
'Eh?'
'A gentleman wishes to speak to you on the telephone.'
'Oh, yes. I was expecting a long-distance call, Lady Wetherby, and
left word I would be here. Will you excuse me?'
Lady Wetherby watched him as he bustled across the room.
'What do you think of him, Claire?'
'Mr Pickering? I think he's very nice.'
'He admires you frantically. I hoped he would. That's why I wanted
you to come over on the same ship with him.'
'Polly! I had no notion you were such a schemer.'
'I would just love to see you two fix it up,' continued Lady
Wetherby, earnestly. 'He may not be what you might call a genius,
but he's a darned good sort; and all his millions help, don't
they? You don't want to overlook these millions, Claire!'
'I do like Mr Pickering.'
'Claire, he asked me if you were engaged.'
'What!'
'When I told him you weren't, he beamed. Honestly, you've only got
to lift your little finger and--Oh, good Lord, there's Algie!'
Claire looked up. A dapper, trim little man of about forty was
threading his way among the tables in their direction. It was a
year since Claire had seen Lord Wetherby, but she recognized him
at once. He had a red, weather-beaten face with a suspicion of
side-whiskers, small, pink-rimmed eyes with sandy eyebrows, the
smoothest of sandy hair, and a chin so cleanly shaven that it was
difficult to believe that hair had ever grown there.
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