“Fees, indeed! How long have I been getting a fee at all?” he asked good-humouredly.
“There’s Milton, who has not half your screw—keeps his hunters.”
“Ah, but he has a private income. I’m a poor man.”
“You old miser! You don’t even know the meaning of the word ‘poverty.’ How do you define it?”
“In the words of the plebeian philosopher, ‘It ain’t no crime—only an infernal ill-convenience.’”
“Well, I shouldn’t think it had ever ill-convenienced you much—eh, Miss West?”
Miss West—born actress—made a gesture of airy negation, and, turning quickly to Mr. Fitzherbert, asked him “if he remembered Mrs. Veryphast last season, and her extraordinary costumes. She quite gloried in her shame, and liked to know that every eye was fixed upon her. She had one awful gown—pale yellow, with enormous spots. She reminded me of a Noah’s-ark dog. It was her Sunday frock; but it was not as bad as her hat, which was like an animated lobster salad—claws and all.”
Then Mr. Fitzherbert had his turn, and told several anecdotes that had already seen some service, but which made Miss West laugh with charming unrestraint. Presently it occurred to the two gentlemen guests that the lady had come for an audience, that it was nearly nine o’clock, and, making one or more lame excuses, which, however, were very readily accepted, they rose reluctantly, and, taking a deferential leave of Miss West, with a “By-bye, old chappie,” to their host, effected their exit, leaving—had they but known it—Mr. and Mrs. Wynne tête-à-tête, alone.
“Well, Laurence,” exclaimed Madeline, with her usual smiling and insouciant air, rising slowly, coming to the fire, and spreading her hands to the blaze.
“Well, Madeline,” he echoed, following her, laying his arm on the mantelpiece, and looking as severe as if he were going to cross-examine a witness. “What does this mean? Have you gone mad, or have you come to stay?”