That day it chanced that Lord Holme came in just before his wife and
carelessly glanced over the cards which had been left during the
afternoon. He was struck by the name of Pimpernel. It tickled his fancy
somehow. As he looked at it he grinned. He looked at it again and vaguely
recalled some shreds of the club gossip about Miss Schley's attractions.
When Lady Holme walked quietly into her drawing-room two or three minutes
later he met her with Miss Schley's card in his hand.
"What have you got there, Fritz?" she said.
He gave her the card.
"You never told me you'd run up against her," he remarked.
Lady Holme looked at the card and then, quickly, at her husband.
"Why--do you know Miss Schley?" she asked.
"Not I."
"Well then?"
"Fellows say she's deuced takin'. That's all. And she's got a fetchin'
name--eh? Pimpernel."
He repeated it twice and began to grin once more, and to bend and
straighten his legs in the way which sometimes irritated his wife. Lady
Holme was again looking at the card.
"Surely it isn't Wednesday?" she said.
"Yes, it is. What did you think it was?"
"Tuesday--Monday--I don't know."
"Where'd you meet her?"
"Whom? Miss Schley? At the Carlton. A lunch of Amalia Wolfstein's."
"Is she pretty?"
"Yes."
There was no hesitation before the reply.
"What colour?
"Oh!--not Albino."
Lord Holme stared.
"What d'you mean by that, girlie?"
"That Miss Schley is remarkably fair--fairer than I am.
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