"Oh--you know how I hate this sort of thing."
"Not long ago you spoke of joining the Lyonnesse."
"I know. I thought I would. But I've decided it's out of my line."
"Then at least come and be introduced to Mrs Aird. She'll know whether Mrs Bassett's here or not."
The blue-grey eyes gave mine a quick and critical glance.
"Is that the Mrs Aird who writes those bright books about young women and their new clothes and how right their instincts are if you only give them plenty of pocket-money and leave 'em alone?"
I smiled. Perhaps it was a little like Madge. But I noticed his sharp distinction between the novels of one woman and the "first" novel of another. It began to look as if behind Mrs Hugo Bassett the novelist lay Daphne Bassett the woman.
"Well," I sighed, "I'm to ask for Mrs Hugo Bassett. What's the title of her book?"
"Mrs Hugo Bassett, author of _The Parthian Arrow_. Very well----"
I approached Madge, but before I could ask my question she had drawn me inside the doorway.
"_Who_ is he?" she whispered ardently in my ear. Her plump ringed hand clutched my sleeve, and there was the liveliest curiosity in the dark eyes that looked up at me from under her nodding hat with black _pleureuse_ feathers.
"Is there a Mrs Bassett here--Daphne Bassett?"
"Has she been, and is she likely to come?"
"She hasn't been, and nobody'll come now. But George----"
"I'll see you presently; just let me get rid of my message," I said; and I returned to Rose.
A glance at my face was enough for him. He may have muttered a "Thank-you," but I didn't hear it; he had spun on his heel and in a moment was half-way to the cloakroom. I hope he got his own hat, for he was out again almost instantly. I had a glimpse of his magnificent back as he hurried along the passage, then a flying heel at the turn of the stairs and he was gone. Turning, I saw that Madge had watched his departure with me. She almost ran to me.
"Quickly, George--who, _who_ is your Beautiful Bear, and why have you been keeping a superb creature like that from me?" she demanded. "I knew he was waiting for a woman. Every skirt that came in----" at the swing of her head the feathers tossed like an inky weeping-elm in a gale. "But," she added, "I confess I never saw a man admire himself _quite_ so openly before."