“You will have to wait till he has seen Lord Severn,” suggested the prudent Despencer.
The marchioness made a grimace.
“I suppose so. How tiresome all this etiquette is! I sometimes wish I could go and be a curate’s wife in the country.”
This pathetic yearning failed to move the callous listener. He retorted:
“I believe there is no more rigid code of etiquette than that which obtains among curates’ wives in the country. I used to know three curates’ wives and one rector’s, but they have all dropped me. I never knew why.”
“I am afraid you must have a dreadful reputation,” said the marchioness, admiringly. “I positively don’t think I ought to stay here alone with you. Do you know they call this the Lovers’ Window?”
Despencer’s eyes fell on the marchioness, and he ventured two and a half inches nearer.
“What a romantic situation! You ought not to have told me that. Remember that I am a poet.”
“I am afraid you are only mocking me,” said the marchioness, lowering her eyes with a bashfulness which, regarded as a work of art, was beautiful. “I believe you are a heartless cynic.”
Despencer moved an inch nearer along the divan as he protested—