"Hush, Southend! That's his brother," whispered Mr Neeld.
"Whose brother?" demanded Southend.
"That's Wilmot Edge—Sir Randolph's brother."
"Oh, the deuce it is. I thought he'd been pilled."
Blackballs also were an embarrassing subject; Neeld sipped his Apollinaris nervously.
"Well, as I was saying" (Lord Southend spoke a little lower), "she went straight from the Duchess of Slough's ball to the station, as she was, in a low gown
and a scarlet opera cloak—met Edge, whose wife had only been dead three months—and went off with him. You know the rest of the story. It was a near run for young Harry Tristram! How is the boy, Iver?"
"The boy's very much of a man indeed; we don't talk about the near run before him."
Southend laughed. "A miss is as good as a mile," he said, "eh, Neeld? I'd like to see Addie Tristram again—though I suppose she's a wreck, poor thing!"
"Why couldn't she marry the man properly, instead of bolting?" asked Iver. He did not approve of such escapades.