The Marquis was well known on the turf and also as a patron of art, but it is necessary to add that more was known of him than was known to his advantage. In fact, he gave many people the opportunity of saying they would not count him among their acquaintances; and he gave very few of them the chance of breaking their word. He and Mrs. Pocklington amused one another, and, whatever he did, he never said anything that was open to complaint.
For some time George talked to Laura. Laura, having once come over to his side, was full of a convert’s zeal, and poured abundant oil and wine into his wounds.
“How could I ever have looked at Isabel Bourne when she was there?” he began to think.
“Mr. Neston,” said Mrs. Pocklington, “Lord Mapledurham wants to know whether you are the Mr. Neston.”
“Mrs. Pocklington has betrayed me, Mr. Neston,” said the Marquis.
“I am one of the two Mr. Nestons, I suppose,” said George, smiling.
“Mr. George Neston?” asked the Marquis.
“Yes.”
“And you let him come here, Mrs. Pocklington?”