George," she said, "where on earth have you been? Are you going to cut me? If so, tell me at once."
"Oh, Mrs. Jones," said Lady George, kissing her, "how can you ask such a question?"
"Because you know it requires two to play at that game, and I'm not going to be cut." Mrs. Montacute Jones was a stout built but very short old lady, with grey hair curled in precise rolls down her face, with streaky cheeks, giving her a look of extreme good health, and very bright grey eyes. She was always admirably dressed, so well dressed that her enemies accused her of spending enormous sums on her toilet. She was very old,—some people said eighty, adding probably not more than ten years to her age,—very enthusiastic, particularly in reference to her friends; very fond of gaiety, and very charitable. "Why didn't you come to my ball?"
"Lord George doesn't care about balls," said Mary, laughing.
"Come, come! Don't try and humbug me. It had been all arranged that you should come when he went to bed. Hadn't it now?"
"Something had been said about it."
"A good deal had been said about it, and he had agreed. Are you going to tell me that he won't go out with you, and yet dislikes your going out without him? Is he such a Bluebeard as that?"
"He's not a Bluebeard at all, Mrs. Jones."
"I hope not. There has been something about that German Baroness;—hasn't there?"
"Oh dear no."