I don't know
how many Christian Science Temples she hasn't erected, or subscribed
liberally to. She turns every table in her house. She won't leave even
one alone. Her early breakfasts for star-gazers are famous, and it's
impossible to dine with her without sitting next to a horoscope-caster,
or being taken in--to dinner, of course--by a crystal diviner or a
nose-prophet."
"A nose-prophet! What's that?"
"A person who tells your fortune by the shape of your nose."
"Oh, I see."
"Well, you understand now that there's no sillier person in London than
dear Mrs. Bridgeman?"
"Oh, quite."
"She's done a great deal for me, more than I can ever repay."
"Indeed."
"Yes, in introducing me to the real inner circles of idiotcy. Well, in
return, I've sworn--"
"You too!"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing. I beg your pardon. Please go on."
She looked at him curiously, and continued.
"I've sworn--that is, pledged my honour, you know--"
"I know! I know!"
"To introduce her to at least one thoroughly sensible person--a man, she
prefers."
"And you've chosen--?"
"Sir Tiglath, because he's the only one I know. Once, I confess, I
thought of you.
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