'Tell the cook,' she said, 'for madame, that she wants some muffins for
tea.'
'Oh, oui. Ah, oui, bien, madame. Merci, madame.'
As the maid was going away Lady Conroy called out:
'Oh, tell the cook it doesn't matter. I won't have them today.'
'Bien, madame.'
Edith was already in a somewhat hilarious mood. Lady Conroy didn't
irritate her; she amused her almost more than any friend she had.
Besides, once she could be got to concentrate on any one subject, nobody
was more entertaining. Edith's English humour delighted in her friend's
Irish wit.
There was something singularly Irish in the way Lady Conroy managed to
make a kind of muddle and untidiness all round her, when she had been in
a room a minute or two. When she had entered the room, it was a
fine-looking apartment, rather sparsely furnished, with very little in
it, all severest First Empire style. There were a few old portraits on
striped pale green walls, and one large basket of hot-house flowers on a
small table. Yet, since her entrance, the room already looked as if
several people had been spending the week in it without tidying it up.
Almost mechanically Edith picked up her bag, books, newspaper,
cigarettes and the glasses.
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