"Listen," cried Vaura, "Mr. Bertram will put to shame the gay gallants of Paris, in the making of pretty speeches; I believe the air of this room is conducive to that sort of thing; I feel inclined to say something complimentary on the beauty and comfort of our host's surroundings myself.
"Relieve my curiosity, Mr. Bertram, and tell me where you are?" said Lady Esmondet, as she leaned back and placed her feet on the softest of fender stools; "we came to dine with a bachelor in something of bachelor, live-by-myself style, and we find ourselves in a noble mansion."
"Yes, Bertram," said Trevalyon; "I was aware of the capacity of a
London alderman, in catering to the comfort of his pampered body; but,
I repeat Lady Esmondet's question of where are you."
"And I answer," said the voice of gay Mrs. Eustace Wingfield, as she entered, "in one of the most fashionable of French flats on Avenue de l'Imperatrice, the fourth flat of said number Eustace and I are fortunate denizens of, and I can assure you, the inmates are such pleasant people that, yours truly, with Eustace, are oftener to be found in these sunny quarters than at Eaton Square, London."
"You are happy," said Vaura, "never out of the sunshine."
"Yes, I like it," said Mrs. Wingfield; "I can't live in the shade, and Mr. Bertram has me to adore for giving him the sun-light of this dwelling. I saw by the papers he was to make his exodus from London, so I telegraphed him to come here, and bring on a box of French novels we had forgotten."
"One does sometimes forget the most important part of one's luggage," said Vaura.
"But," said Trevalyon, "I'll wager Bertram did not forget your mental food."
"Not he, with his aldermanic taste for spicy dishes," said Vaura.
"No, the temptation would be too much for him, with the piece de resistance, an uninteresting husband, side dish, paragon lover, entree, neglected wife with flavourings thrown in, scandals, duels, etc.," said Trevalyon.