[135] [135] “So good of you to think it long. I am sure it seems an age to me.” Mr. Maunder having meanwhile glided through the crowd with an eel-like elusiveness, Mrs. Chumley Jones is left with a remark upon which to form her conversation for the afternoon. “We have had such a strange winter; don’t you think so, Mr. Lasceet? It is really like a Roman winter.” “It really is; though I shouldn’t have thought of it. You are always so clever in thinking of things, Mrs. Jones.” “You are a sad flatterer, Mr. Lasceet.” Mr. Lasceet endeavors to look very sly and cunning, and while he gives his mind to this endeavor another slips into his place. “How do you do, Mrs. Jones?” says Percival Drummond. “Oh, how do you do, Mr. Drummond? I haven’t seen you for ever so long.” Mr. Lasceet melts into the swaying background, and is seen no more. “It really is not nice of you to say so, Mrs. Jones,” is Mr. Drummond’s response, “when I took you in to dinner at Mrs. Tiger’s night before last.” “Oh, dear me; how stupid of me! I really fear I am losing my mind. It is the weather, I think. It is so like a Roman winter, don’t you think?” [136] [136] “Yes, it is a little.” “Oh, ever so much. How do you do, dear Mrs. Gray? I am delighted to see you. I was just saying to Mr. Drummond that it seems to me that our winter this year is so much like a Roman winter. Did you ever think of it?” “Oh, my dear, I have thought of nothing else all winter. Why, it is just such a day as it was one afternoon two years ago when I was in Rome.” “Were you in Rome year before last?” Mr. Drummond inquires, with the air of one to whom the answer of the question is of the most vital importance, although he asks only for
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