"My dear boy, I've already assured you that Madame is of sang azur—an old Alcantara family. She married a Scotchman who made a fortune in indigo. The girl has been brought up in England, and polished abroad. I believe she is twenty-two years of age. From personal experience I am in a position to inform you that she can keep her temper, hold her tongue, write a fine hand, and add up a bridge account."
"Oh, well, that is something."
"The old woman has given her a superior education, and lavished money on her, and now takes her everywhere, for the pure pleasure of the reflected glory she enjoys as aunt of the celebrated Miss Chandos! The girl is her hobby. Instead of cats, china, or old furniture, her craze is Verona, and she carries her about, and exhibits her, like a prize animal, enters her for all the big shows, such as this—and when her property comes in an easy first, looks on with a grin extending from ear to ear, and for all I know, meeting under her wig!"
Here Sir Horace paused, and struck his cane forcibly on the gravel as he added:
"Miss Chandos is the beauty here this year; all the world is at her feet."
"And what does she say to all the world?"
"Nothing particular. Takes it as a matter of course—though she is not a bit conceited, to give her her due—smiles and laughs, as you see, and turns to conquests new."
"Such as the chap in the blue coat! Are the poor devils never out of uniform?"
"Never, except at tennis, and then they change before leaving the pavilion. Miss Chandos would be a splendid match for some needy baron or princelet. She will come in for fifteen thousand a year, and the money is all there—I happen to know it for a fact."
"Fifteen thousand a year—and beauty—will never stoop to a poor captain in the line!"