Do you think I am?"
He could not help smiling as he looked into her solemn eyes.
"I do indeed. Why should you be upset about it?"
"I don't know. Lady Cardington's been saying things--and I met a rather
abominable little person at lunch, a little person like a baby that's
been about a great deal in a former state, and altogether--Let's have
tea."
"By all means."
"And now soothe me, Robin. I'm dreadfully strung up. Soothe me. Tell me,
I'm an everybody's woman and that I shall never be /de trop/ in the
world--not even when I'm fifty-eight."
CHAPTER VI
THE success of Pimpernel Schley in London was great and immediate, and
preceded her appearance upon the stage. To some people, who thought they
knew their London, it was inexplicable. Miss Schley was pretty and knew
how to dress. These facts, though of course denied by some, as all facts
in London are, were undeniable. But Miss Schley had nothing to say. She
was not a brilliant talker, as so many of her countrywomen are. She was
not vivacious in manner, except on rare occasions. She was not interested
in all the questions of the day. She was not--a great many things. But
she was one thing.
She was exquisitely sly.
Her slyness was definite and pervasive. In her it took the place of wit.
It took the place of culture. It even took the place of vivacity. It was
a sort of maid-of-all-work in her personality and never seemed to tire.
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