With this came the wider notice which was
not worth having, like the notice of Mrs. Westangle, since so well known
to society reporters as a society woman, which could not be called
recognition of him, because it did not involve any knowledge of his book,
not even its title. She did not read any sort of books, and she
assimilated him by a sort of atmospheric sense. She was sure of nothing
but the attention paid him in a certain very goodish house, by people
whom she heard talking in unintelligible but unmistakable praise, when
she said, casually, with a liquid glitter of her sweet, small eyes,
"I wish you would come down to my place, Mr. Verrian. I'm asking a few
young people for Christmas week. Will you?"
"Why, thank you--thank you very much," Verrian said, waiting to hear more
in explanation of the hospitality launched at him. He had never seen
Mrs. Westangle till then, or heard of her, and he had not the least
notion where she lived. But she seemed to have social authority, though
Verrian, in looking round at his hostess and her daughter, who stood
near, letting people take leave, learned nothing from their common smile.
Mrs. Westangle had glided close to him, in the way she had of getting
very near without apparently having advanced by steps, and she stood
gleaming and twittering up at him.
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