“There, that will do, mother. You are not good at domestic sentiment; it isn’t in your line. Can’t we go and bill and coo somewhere else?” she said to her betrothed.
“What a child!” murmured her parent, still deeply affected. “Take care of her, John.”
John intimated his disposition to do so by a bow, and the marchioness and Despencer found themselves alone. The latter hastened to console his companion.
“Don’t mind her, marchioness. You did that very well, indeed. The maternal embrace was perfect.”
The marchioness sat down on the divan and heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction.
“You may be as rude as you like now,” she observed, mildly, “because you have been so clever and wicked in managing this for me. I suppose it is quite settled now. He won’t go back to that horrid girl again?”
Despencer placed himself on the seat beside the marchioness at the exact distance which he thought safe, as he replied:
“I think not. The game is not quite finished yet. I am still waiting to play my ace of trumps.”
The marchioness was too full of her triumph to heed the last words.
“We had better announce this in the papers at once,” she remarked, pursuing her own line of thought. “One cannot make too sure.”