"No," returned Lowndes. "Don't you know I never read the rag? I've told you so pretty often."
"Everybody tells everybody else that they never read it. Yet I suppose it sells hundreds of thousand a week. My copy's just come in. Jane brought it—and you didn't hear her because you were snoring. I thought you might have seen it at the club before you left, and not said anything so as to make me speak first."
"Why, has the viper got in a dig against us?"
"Vipers don't dig. No, thanks to Heaven or the other thing, there's nothing on us. But it's all about someone you're just as much interested in—more interested than you are in me, anyhow. Juliet Claremanagh."
"Oh!" Billy sat up straight in his chair, though he did not seem to be as intensely excited as his wife had thought he would be. "Does the pig mention her by name?"
"The pig does not. He might as well, though, for everybody will know who's meant. By Jove, I wouldn't be Juliet to-night!"
"I believe you!" grunted Lowndes. But he did not believe her. He seldom did; and in this instance not at all, because he was sure she would give her eyes to be Juliet, just as sure as that he would give his to be Juliet's husband. "What's the racket this time?"
"I'll read the stuff aloud to you," said his wife; and began: "Let's Whisper!"
"That a certain foreign gentleman of title, with one of the prettiest and richest young wives in New York, is much to be sympathized with, because he has got a bad cold.
"But—he is to be congratulated on the marvellous medicine with which he is able to combat this ailment.