“I say, what a find for Mulgrave!” muttered one county magnate to a neighbour.
“Yes. I’m not sure that Lady M. is delighted with his discovery. Where is she?”
“Need you ask? In the bridge-room, of course.”
“I wonder what she would say to the stir the girl is making? By gad!”—watching her as she passed by. “And who is the fellow with her?”
“Lady Barre’s nephew; his name is Doran.”
“Irish! Well, no Irish need apply—her ladyship is booked for Dudley Deverell. By the way, I see him here playing the fool with the Fullerton woman.”
Dudley Deverell observed from afar, and marvelled. So Joseline had got hold of Doran. Such a smart, good-looking chap—and Joseline was undeniably admired. Oh, yes, she was all very well—until she began to talk!
“It is a pity you can’t waltz,” remarked Ulick, as they looked on; “but you will learn in no time.”
“I’m no good. I can do nothing like other people. I can’t ride, or dance, or play bridge, or tell pleasant lies to people’s faces without turning a hair, or even pretend I like those I can’t bear.”
“Oh, all those things will come easy to you, bar the hypocrisy. It was strange our meeting here to-night,” he said.