"I say," she continued as she fastened her white furs, "have you heard the very latest thing about the Valettas and Guy Scott? Bertie's going to tell me all about it to-night; he is the only really brilliant gossip I know. He's raised it to such an art that it's no longer gossip: it's modern history and psychology! First he gets his facts right; then he takes a sort of vivid analytical interest in every one—always a humorously sympathetic view, of course—and has so much imagination that he makes you see the whole thing!"
"Good gracious! I think I don't care for gossip about other people," said Vera; "I'm sure I shouldn't like that at all. I am really only interested in my own life."
"Then no wonder you find it so difficult to be amused, darling."
They parted, kissing affectionately.
CHAPTER XIV
LORD CHETWODE
"I have to go down to Fulham this morning; don't let me forget it," said Lord Chetwode.
He was sitting in the green library with Felicity, markedly abstaining from the newspapers surrounding him, and reading over an old catalogue. He was a fair, delicate-looking young man of twenty-eight years the amiability of whose expression seemed accentuated by the upward turning of his minute blonde moustache. He had deep blue eyes, rather far apart, regular features, and a full, very high forehead, on which the fair hair was already growing scanty. Tall and slight, he had a rather casual, boyish air, and beautiful but useful-looking white hands, the hands of the artist. His voice and manner had the soft unobtrusive gentleness that comes to those whose ancestors for long years have dared and commanded. In time, when there's nothing more to fight for, the dash naturally dies out.