"Don't see what harm he could be up to," said the young marquis. "And so the fair Violet won't go down to Scotland this autumn, eh, Floyd?"
"No," said the colonel, ruefully; "and so I can't, either, confound it! Not that there seems much use in hanging about, for one can't get a civil word from her lately."
"They say," whispered the marquis, "that she's still sweet on Blair."
The colonel glanced over at him and shrugged his shoulders.
"Then she's wasting that same sweetness on desert air, Aldy, for to my certain knowledge he hasn't been near Park Lane since he came back. Hallo, talk of the devil—here is that fellow!"
For Austin Ambrose entered the room in his peculiar noiseless fashion, and, bestowing a nod upon the colonel and the marquis, crossed the room to Blair's chair.
Blair looked up as Austin Ambrose greeted him, looked up with that listless, spiritless glance which speaks so eloquently of the wrecked hopes and consequent despair.
"Well Blair," said Austin Ambrose, with his slow smile. "Thought I should find you here! You've dined, of course?"
Blair thought a moment as if he were trying to recollect.
"No, I haven't," he said.