Edith smiled at her in astonishment. She had utterly forgotten her
friend's fancy about the imaginary intrigue supposed to be going on
between her and Mr Mitchell, and she wondered what the gesture meant.
Sir Tito also saw it, and, turning round to Edith, said in a low voice:
'Qu'est-ce-qu'elle a, la vieille?'
'I really don't know. I never understand signs. I've forgotten the code,
I suppose!'
Mr Mitchell, after a word to the person he had taken down, gladly turned
to Edith. He always complained that the host was obliged to sit between
the oldest and the most boring guests. It was unusual for him to have so
pretty a neighbour as Edith. But he was a collector: his joy was to see
a heterogeneous mass of people, eating and laughing at his table. For
his wife there were a few social people, for him the Bohemians, and
always the younger guests.
'Not bad--not bad, is it?' he said, looking critically round down the
two sides of the table, while his kind pink face beamed with
hospitable joy.
'You've got a delightful party tonight.'
'What I always say is,' said Mr Mitchell; 'let them enjoy themselves!
Dash it, I hate etiquette.' He lowered his voice.
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