"Well..." A frigid half-smile came and went on Bruce Carmyle's dark
face. "My cousin has many excellent qualities, no doubt--he used to play
football well, and I understand that he is a capable amateur
pugilist--but I should not have supposed him entertaining. We find him a
little dull."

"I thought it was only royalty that called themselves 'we.'"

"I meant myself--and the rest of the family."

The mention of the family was too much for Sally. She had to stop
talking in order to allow her mind to clear itself of rude thoughts.

"Mr. Kemp was telling me about Mr. Scrymgeour," she went on at length.

Bruce Carmyle stared for a moment at the yard or so of French bread
which the waiter had placed on the table.

"Indeed?" he said. "He has an engaging lack of reticence."

The waiter returned bearing soup and dumped it down.

"V'la!" he observed, with the satisfied air of a man who has
successfully performed a difficult conjuring trick. He smiled at Sally
expectantly, as though confident of applause from this section of his
audience at least. But Sally's face was set and rigid. She had been
snubbed, and the sensation was as pleasant as it was novel.

"I think Mr. Kemp had hard luck," she said.