"And Lord Bowdon drove her home?" His tone begged for a comment from his companion.
"I told you so," she answered with a touch of irritation, which was as significant as any comment.
The servant came in, bringing tea; they were silent while the preparations were made. Ashley, however, covertly regarded his friend's trim figure and pretty, small features. He often felt rather surprised that he had no inclination to fall in love with, or even to make love to, Irene Kilnorton. Many men had such an inclination, he knew; among them he ranked this same Lord Bowdon who had driven Miss Pinsent to her house. Lady Kilnorton was young, she was pretty, she had, if not wit, at least the readiness of reply which is the common substitute provided by the habit of conversing with wideawake people. It was, though, very pleasant to have so charming a friend and to be in no danger of transforming her into the doubtful and dangerous character of a woman he loved; so he told himself, having no disposition to love her.
"She's got a husband, hasn't she?" he asked, as the door closed behind the footman.
"Ora? Oh, yes, somewhere. He's a scamp, I think. He's called—oh, I forget! But his name doesn't matter."
"They've always got a husband, he's always a scamp, and his name never matters," remarked Ashley between mouthfuls of toast.
"Fenning! That's it! Fenning."
"Just as you like, Lady Kilnorton. It's the fact, not what you call it, that's the thing, you know."
As he spoke the door was opened again and Lord Bowdon was announced. He came in almost eagerly, like a man who has something to say, shook hands hastily, and, the instant that he dropped into a chair, exclaimed, "What a glorious creature!"
"I knew exactly what you were going to say before you opened your lips," remarked Lady Kilnorton. "You haven't been long, though." There was a touch of malice in her tone.