Mrs. Cooke was not without tact, and I have no doubt she
perceived my reluctance to talk about her husband and respected it.
"We drove down to bring you back to luncheon," she said.
I thanked her and accepted. She was curious to hear about Asquith and
its people, and I told her all I knew.
"I should like to meet some of them," she explained, "for we intend
having a cotillon at Mohair,--a kind of house-warming, you know. A party
of Mr. Cooke's friends is coming out for it in his car, and he thought
something of inviting the people of Asquith up for a dance."
I had my doubts concerning the wisdom of an entertainment, the success
of which depended on the fusion of a party of Mr. Cooke's friends and
a company from Asquith. But I held my peace. She shot a question at me
suddenly:
"Who is this Mr. Allen?"
"He registers from Boston, and only came a fortnight ago," I replied
vaguely.
"He doesn't look quite right; as though he had been set down on the wrong
planet, you know," said Mrs. Cooke, her finger on her temple. "What is
he like?"
"Well," I answered, at first with uncertainty, then with inspiration, "he
would do splendidly to lead your cotillon, if you think of having one."
"So you do not dance, Mr. Crocker?"
I was somewhat set back by her perspicuity.
"No, I do not," said I.
"I thought not," she said, laughing. It must have been my expression
which prompted her next remark.
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