"I really don't see any connection between Mrs. Creery's Mondays and myself," coolly rejoined that lady's former bête-noire. And, with a few general remarks about Port Blair, the monsoon, the sharks, and the shells, the conversation drifted back to less out-of-the-way regions.
The younger members of the party set out after dinner for the Savoy, to see Gilbert and Sullivan's latest production. They consisted of Captain and Mrs. Durand, two young lady cousins, a guardsman, and Mr. Lisle. Mrs. Durand and the latter occupied the back seat in the box, and discoursed of the piece, mutual friends, and mutual aversions, with a scrupulous avoidance of the one topic nearest their hearts.
At last, the lady could stand it no longer; and, during the interval after the first act, she turned to her companion, and said rather sharply, "You remember Miss Denis?"
"Miss Denis—oh, yes! of course I do!"
"Those are her cousins in the box next the stage—those girls in pink."
"Is she living with them?"
"Oh dear no! She stayed a month or two on her first arrival, and, by all accounts, they led her the life of a modern Cinderella, and afterwards turned her off to earn her bread as a governess."
"Indeed!" he ejaculated, with such stoical indifference that Mrs. Durand felt that she could have shaken him. But, after a moment's silence, he added, "I always thought she had married Quentin—until to-day."
"Oh, nonsense! You are not really serious! Of course you are aware that your friend, Apollo, has espoused a widow with quantities of money in the oil trade."
"Pray do not call him my friend; I am not at all anxious to claim that honour," he rejoined stiffly.