“Now, that’s very good of him,” murmured Spenser Churchill; “very good, most charming and nice. To go to Ireland on the very day he has arranged a meeting with that beautiful girl. Now——”
“Is she so beautiful?” asked the marquis, who seemed to take the unctuous words as meaningless and not worth listening to. “I suppose she must be. He has seen many pretty women, many clever ones. What has caught him? What is she like?”
Spenser Churchill shot a sidelong glance at him.
“The usual thing, my dear marquis,” he said, softly. “Just the usual thing! They make those face powders wonderfully well now—wonderfully!”
The marquis smiled grimly.
“The fool, to be caught by a painted vixen, old enough——I suppose she is old, eh?”
Spenser Churchill shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, yes, of course! A young girl wouldn’t have had the tact to catch him so easily. And he has written to her, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Spenser Churchill; “and gone to post his letter under the stone. The romance is simply charming! Charming!”
The marquis eyed the fire thoughtfully.