Meanwhile, up at Scarsmoor Castle, Lynborough, in exceedingly high spirits, talked to Leonard Stabb.
“Yes, Cromlech,” he said, “a pretty girl, a very pretty girl if you like that petite insinuating style. For myself I prefer something a shade more—what shall we call it?”
“Don’t care a hang,” muttered Stabb.
“A trifle more in the grand manner, perhaps, Cromlech. And she hadn’t anything like the complexion. I knew at once that it couldn’t be the Marchesa. Do you bathe to-morrow morning?”
“And get my head broken?”
“Just stand still, and let them throw themselves against you, Cromlech. Roger!—Oh, he’s gone to bed; stupid thing to do—that! Cromlech, old chap, I’m enjoying myself immensely.”
He just touched his old friend’s shoulder as he passed by: the caress was almost imperceptible. Stabb turned his broad red face round to him and laughed ponderously.
“Oh, and you understand!” cried Lynborough.
“I have never myself objected to a bit of fun with the girls,” said Stabb.
Lynborough sank into a chair murmuring delightedly, “You’re priceless, Cromlech!”