“Belle Yorke.”
“Belle Yorke!” Even Despencer’s careful training did not enable him to hide his stupefaction on hearing the name. “The celebrated Belle Yorke?” he asked, staring hard at the marchioness.
“The notorious Belle Yorke,” was the scornful answer. “I understand she is all the rage at the music-halls just now, and Mr. Hammond is among her admirers.”
“He is not the only one,” said Despencer, dryly.
“Why do you look like that?” demanded the marchioness. “Is there some mystery about Belle Yorke?”
“Oh no! Oh, dear no! Very little mystery, I should say,” and Despencer smiled.
The marchioness detected a history in the smile.
“Then there is some scandal?” she asked, eagerly, lowering her voice as people do when they do not wish to be overheard by their conscience. “I felt sure of it. I read in a paper only the other day that all those people on the stage were alike. Ahem! Mr. Despencer—what do people say?”
Despencer gave another light shrug. He shrugged consummately. Despencer’s shrugs were as celebrated as the marchioness’s frowns.
“What do people generally say? It is the usual story: the usual little cottage at Hammersmith, the usual widowed mother, and the usual friend who pays the rent.”