We sailed into Prince's, therefore--Eve charming in a lemon-colored
foulard dress and a black toque; Mrs. Bundercombe in an Okata dressmaker's
conception of a tailor-made gown in some hard, steel-ray material, and a
hat whose imperfections were perhaps mercifully hidden by a veil, which,
instead of providing a really reasonable excuse for its existence by
concealing some portion of Mrs. Bundercombe's features, streamed down
behind her nearly to her feet.
The _maitre d'hotel_ who welcomed me and showed to our table found his
little flow of small talk arrested by that first glimpse of our companion.
He accepted my orders in a chastened manner, and I noticed his eyes
straying every now and then, as though in fearsome fascination, to Mrs.
Bundercombe, who was sitting very upright at the table, with her bony
fingers stretched out and a good deal of gold showing in her teeth as she
talked with Eve in a high nasal voice concerning the absurd food
invariably offered in English restaurants.
Then suddenly her flow of language ceased--the bomb-shell fell! Mrs.
Bundercombe's face became unlike anything I have ever seen or dreamed of.
Even Eve's eyes were round and her expression dubious. I turned my head.
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