He MIGHT be
going out for that. We can watch his conversation, and see what part of
India he talks about."
"They don't seem inclined to give us much chance of talking," I
objected.
"No; they are VERY exclusive. But I'm very exclusive, too. And I mean to
give them a touch of my exclusiveness. I venture to predict that, before
we reach Bombay, they'll be going down on their knees and imploring us
to travel with them."
At table, as it happened, from next morning's breakfast the Meadowcrofts
sat next to us. Hilda was on one side of me; Lady Meadowcroft on the
other; and beyond her again, bluff Yorkshire Sir Ivor, with his cold,
hard, honest blue North Country eyes, and his dignified, pompous
English, breaking down at times into a North Country colloquialism. They
talked chiefly to each other. Acting on Hilda's instructions, I took
care not to engage in conversation with our "exclusive" neighbour,
except so far as the absolute necessities of the table compelled me. I
"troubled her for the salt" in the most frigid voice. "May I pass you
the potato salad?" became on my lips a barrier of separation. Lady
Meadowcroft marked and wondered.
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