Madame Bonanni had breakfasted at half-past eleven, but Mrs. Rushmore
lunched at half-past one, and Margaret found her at table with
Lushington and three or four other people who had dropped in. There was
an English officer who had got his Victoria Cross in South Africa and
was on his way to India, with a few days to spare by the way; there was
a middle-aged French portrait-painter who had caressing ways and an
immense reputation; there was a woman of the world whose husband was an
Austrian and was in the diplomatic service; and there was a young
archæologist just from Crete, who foregathered with Lushington.
They were at the end of luncheon when Margaret came in, they were
sipping fine wine from very thin glasses, they were all saying their
second-best things, because each one was afraid that if he said his
very best before dinner one of the others would steal it; and Mrs.
Rushmore was in her element.
Margaret came in with her hat on and sat down in her place, which was
opposite Mrs. Rushmore. The men subsided again into their chairs and
looked at her. Lushington was next to her, but she smiled at the others
first, nodding quietly and answering their greetings.
'You seem pleased,' Lushington said, when he saw that she would hear
him.
'Do I?' She smiled again.
'That sort of answer always means a secret,' Lushington replied.
'Happiness for one, don't you know?'
'By the way,' asked the English officer on her other side, 'was not
your father the famous army coach?'
'No,' Margaret replied. 'I'm often asked that.'
'What is an army coach?' inquired the French painter, who spoke some
English. 'Is it not an ambulance? But I do not understand.' Mrs. Rushmore began to explain in an undertone.
'Miss Donne's father was an Oxford don,' observed Lushington, rather
stiffly.
At this quite unintentional pun the French painter laughed so much that
every one turned and looked at him. He had once painted a famous man in
Oxford, and knew what a don was.
'Make the next one in Greek,' said Margaret to Lushington, with a
smile.
'There are some very bad puns in Aristophanes,' observed the
archæologist thoughtfully. 'Why don't you go to Crete?' he inquired
very suddenly of Mrs. Rushmore.
Mrs. Rushmore, who did not happen to have heard of the recent
discoveries yet, felt a little as if the young man had asked her why
she did not go to Jericho. But she concealed her feelings, being quite
sure that no offence to her dignity was meant.