He laid down the marquis’s photograph, and placed himself in a chair beside the young woman. She barely raised her head.
“Thanks. I will tell my maid what you say. She will be glad of a little encouragement, poor thing!”
The marchioness gave a low moan.
“Victoria! I hope you are accustomed to the modern girl, Mr. Hammond.”
“The modern girl is my particular hobby,” was the grave answer. “I may say that I collect her. I keep an album at home, in which I get young ladies to record their most secret thoughts and yearnings for my especial benefit. It is such interesting reading.” He turned again to the scornful beauty beside him. “Mayn’t I put you in my album?”
“I hardly know. I am afraid I should shock you; I am so perfectly depraved,” drawled Victoria. “You would have to keep me apart, like those very select works of which only a hundred copies are printed on hand-made paper and sold by private subscription to scholars.”
“Victoria!” There was a note of real distress in the marchioness’s voice. “What are you talking about?”
“I dare say Mr. Hammond knows,” was the reply, in the same unmoved tone.
“Perhaps Mr. Hammond collects those works as well. They are generally written by young ladies,” Despencer interposed.
Hammond turned and looked at him as if a dog had barked.