Langdon-Owen work in shops nowadays. I thought you had a deb in your department some time ago.”
“Yes, but she wasn’t there from necessity and she packed up as soon as the novelty wore off. Besides, the Stuyvesants don’t know that I worked—they think we’re a couple of debs.”
“You didn’t actually say so, did you?” Sara asked anxiously.
“Of course not, you idiot. But that’s what they think, and that’s what they would have gone on thinking if that awful Valerie creature hadn’t turned up.” She got up and began to pace restlessly about the room. “What you don’t seem to realize is that Connie may not be exactly a dreamboat, but he’s still a very good catch. Back in Minneapolis, he’s probably top target for every match-making mother within a hundred miles. So you can be quite sure he’s not short of girl friends. If he falls for me, it won’t be solely on the strength of my looks, but because I’ve a rarity value. You know how Americans like to buy up old English silver and porcelain and Jacobean staircases. Well, at the moment, the Stuyvesants see me in the same sort of light.”
“Oh, Angela, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. You make yourself sound so cold-blooded and mercenary—and you know you aren’t really,” Sara protested distastefully.
Angela didn’t seem to hear her. She was staring at her reflection in the looking-glass, an expression of deep calculation making a faint line between her delicate fly-away eyebrows.
“Well, if they try to put a spoke in my wheel, they may find I’m more than a match for them,” she said, I half to herself. Then, turning to look at Sara, “I shouldn’t have thought you’d have been exactly delighted to meet that South Kensington siren. It’s very obvious why she wanted to come to Nassau.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Sara—are you blind? She’s crazy about Stephen.”
“I don’t see why that should worry me,” Sara said frigidly.
“So you’re really not interested in him? Oh, well”—Angela shrugged her shoulders—“it’s probably just as well. I think he was mildly intrigued by you, but you’d never be able to match friend Valerie’s technique.”
* * *
Neither Stephen nor the Langdon-Owen family appeared in the cocktail bar or on the dining terrace that evening. After dinner, the Stuyvesants and the Gordon girls were having coffee in the palm lounge when a waiter told Sara she was wanted on the telephone. She got up, preparing to follow him back to the booths in the entrance lounge, but the man said she could take the call in her chair and produced a telephone which he set on the arm of her chair. A moment later, the switchboard connected the lines.
Not surprisingly—since she knew no one else outside the hotel—the caller was Peter Laszlo. He wanted to know if she would care to come out for a drink.
Conscious that the others had stopped talking and were watching her, Sara had a short mental debate with herself, then made up her mind.
“I’m going out with Peter for a while,” she said to Angela, when she had replaced the receiver. “He’s picking me up in about twenty minutes.”
Actually it was less than ten minutes before a page came to tell her that Peter had arrived. Sara said goodnight to the Stuyvesants, wondered if her sister’s smile masked a helpless annoyance, and went to meet him in the foyer. Standing by the reception desk was Stephen Rand.
“Oh, hello, Stephen. We did enjoy the trip today,” she said sweetly. And then, quite deliberately, she moved past him to give Peter a glowing smile and take his arm.
“You look very vivacious tonight,” Peter said, as he tucked her into his car.
“Do I?”
As he walked round the bonnet and slid behind the wheel, Sara looked back through the hotel entrance. But Stephen had moved out of sight and she had no means of knowing whether her little piece of bravado had succeeded in nettling him. Probably not, she decided
“Yes, but she wasn’t there from necessity and she packed up as soon as the novelty wore off. Besides, the Stuyvesants don’t know that I worked—they think we’re a couple of debs.”
“You didn’t actually say so, did you?” Sara asked anxiously.
“Of course not, you idiot. But that’s what they think, and that’s what they would have gone on thinking if that awful Valerie creature hadn’t turned up.” She got up and began to pace restlessly about the room. “What you don’t seem to realize is that Connie may not be exactly a dreamboat, but he’s still a very good catch. Back in Minneapolis, he’s probably top target for every match-making mother within a hundred miles. So you can be quite sure he’s not short of girl friends. If he falls for me, it won’t be solely on the strength of my looks, but because I’ve a rarity value. You know how Americans like to buy up old English silver and porcelain and Jacobean staircases. Well, at the moment, the Stuyvesants see me in the same sort of light.”
“Oh, Angela, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. You make yourself sound so cold-blooded and mercenary—and you know you aren’t really,” Sara protested distastefully.
Angela didn’t seem to hear her. She was staring at her reflection in the looking-glass, an expression of deep calculation making a faint line between her delicate fly-away eyebrows.
“Well, if they try to put a spoke in my wheel, they may find I’m more than a match for them,” she said, I half to herself. Then, turning to look at Sara, “I shouldn’t have thought you’d have been exactly delighted to meet that South Kensington siren. It’s very obvious why she wanted to come to Nassau.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Sara—are you blind? She’s crazy about Stephen.”
“I don’t see why that should worry me,” Sara said frigidly.
“So you’re really not interested in him? Oh, well”—Angela shrugged her shoulders—“it’s probably just as well. I think he was mildly intrigued by you, but you’d never be able to match friend Valerie’s technique.”
* * *
Neither Stephen nor the Langdon-Owen family appeared in the cocktail bar or on the dining terrace that evening. After dinner, the Stuyvesants and the Gordon girls were having coffee in the palm lounge when a waiter told Sara she was wanted on the telephone. She got up, preparing to follow him back to the booths in the entrance lounge, but the man said she could take the call in her chair and produced a telephone which he set on the arm of her chair. A moment later, the switchboard connected the lines.
Not surprisingly—since she knew no one else outside the hotel—the caller was Peter Laszlo. He wanted to know if she would care to come out for a drink.
Conscious that the others had stopped talking and were watching her, Sara had a short mental debate with herself, then made up her mind.
“I’m going out with Peter for a while,” she said to Angela, when she had replaced the receiver. “He’s picking me up in about twenty minutes.”
Actually it was less than ten minutes before a page came to tell her that Peter had arrived. Sara said goodnight to the Stuyvesants, wondered if her sister’s smile masked a helpless annoyance, and went to meet him in the foyer. Standing by the reception desk was Stephen Rand.
“Oh, hello, Stephen. We did enjoy the trip today,” she said sweetly. And then, quite deliberately, she moved past him to give Peter a glowing smile and take his arm.
“You look very vivacious tonight,” Peter said, as he tucked her into his car.
“Do I?”
As he walked round the bonnet and slid behind the wheel, Sara looked back through the hotel entrance. But Stephen had moved out of sight and she had no means of knowing whether her little piece of bravado had succeeded in nettling him. Probably not, she decided
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