“Exactly!” exclaimed the marchioness, with some eagerness. The next moment she recollected herself and frowned. Even the fireside cat will sometimes protrude its claws from under their velvet caps, and the marchioness was not quite sure that she had not felt a scratch. She frowned beautifully—the marchioness’s frown was celebrated. Then she observed: “Though I think it is extremely impertinent of you to say so. Please to remember that the marquis is my husband.”
“Ah! to be sure he is. I apologize. It is so difficult to keep in mind these legal distinctions.”
This time the marchioness felt certain she had been scratched. She glanced furtively at her companion, who preserved the composure of entire innocence as he set down his empty teacup on a small ebony stool, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and made himself more at ease by drawing back into his chair and crossing his superbly trousered legs. After a little pause, she asked suddenly:
“You know Mr. Hammond?”
“No.” The word was spoken with a touch of disdain.
“Not know Mr. Hammond! Why, I thought Hammond’s ales were drunk in all the clubs?”
“It doesn’t follow that you know a man because you drink his beer. But I have heard of him. Isn’t he rather an outsider?”
The marchioness looked indignant.
“He is run after by all the best people,” she remonstrated.
“Yes, but is he worth it?” returned Despencer.