Mr. George said she was pretty, and as for the commandments, Miss Cooper looked as if she had never heard of them. So he started for the Fulham Road, where she lived.
First he saw Mrs. Cooper. She received him with the graciousness his clothes and boots deserved. When he explained his errand she gasped with horror.
Fortunately at this moment Sylvia entered and the tragic situation ended. Mr. George asked questions and obtained her photograph for the paper.
“I will not repeat any of the opinions you confide in me,” he said. “If I did, and you said you preferred fine days to rainy ones, you would see in all the papers that Miss Cooper owns to a fondness for fine days, but she need not imagine that Heaven will be gracious to _her_ at the expense of the farmers.”
“Or cab drivers,” said Sylvia. “Showery weather must be their harvest time. Still no paper will notice my opinions. Why did you come to interview me? I am nobody.”
“I want to get your ideas on chorus work.”
“Yes? Well, you shall have them by and by. We need not talk of my feelings or of my preferences—but will you have some tea?”
He owned to being a friend of Launa’s and a cousin of Sir Anthony Howard’s. Mrs. Cooper forgave everything then, and found his visit of over an hour too short. As soon as he left he drove to Victoria Mansions.
Launa had just come in. She had lunched at the Herberts’. Mr. Wainbridge as usual was with her.
“You will never guess where I have been,” said Mr. George, with complacency, accepting a third cup of tea. Launa’s tea was always good; at Sylvia’s there was no cream. “I suppose,” he reflected, “there are lives without cream.”
“Interviewing Miss Cooper for the _Signal_, and here is her photograph.”
“Not really,” said Launa, with interest. “How naughty of you when I refused to introduce you to her, for I do not approve of you.”
“Now, Miss Launa, you are real mean, as you Yankees say.”
“I know it. Haven’t I kept your secret? Did I ever tell Mr. Wainbridge how you fell violently in love with me and told me so, and how you would hold my hand? And how I did stroke yours? I was obliged to that night of the Fulton’s ball. The night you cried—you had just been dancing with Mr. Wainbridge—you said you were tired—you said—”