“If that’s all, I’m sure I needn’t stay. But I leave you my photograph.”
With these words Lord Severn made a bolt for it, and succeeded in getting out of hearing before his wife could launch a fresh injunction.
The marchioness bit her lip in some embarrassment. Despencer caught her eye and managed to infuse a certain meaning into his look, as he asked aloud:
“Who are you going to have to sing on Thursday night?”
The marchioness took her cue with the dexterity of an old diplomatist. She leaned back in her chair with an air of utter unconcern, as she responded:
“I have almost forgotten. Some people they recommended to me at the music-seller’s.” She raised her hand to her brow, as though studying to recollect. “Let me see. Oh yes, there is one woman who I believe is perfectly charming. They told me that at the music-halls all the young men were dying for her.”
Hammond moved his head rather abruptly to look at the speaker.
“Do you remember her name?” he asked.
“I think she calls herself Belle Yorke. Why, have you seen her?”
The marchioness’s expression was one of innocent surprise at the strong interest plainly depicted on her listener’s countenance.