“Very nice, very nice, indeed; a thought, perhaps, too formal—I mean for the occasion—but in admirable taste. Your Ladyship is grace itself.”
“My Lord, you are a model of courtesy.”
“I cannot even attempt to convey what pleasure your words give me,” said he, pressing his hand to his heart and bowing low. Meanwhile, with a darkening brow and a look of haughty defiance, she swept past him and left the room.
“Is n't Marion well?” said Temple Bramleigh, as he entered a few minutes later; “her maid told me she had gone to her room.”
“Quite well: a little fagged, perhaps, by a day of visiting; nothing beyond that. You have been dining at the embassy? whom had you there?”
“A family party and a few of the smaller diplomacies.”
“To be sure. It was Friday. Any news stirring?”
“Nothing whatever.”
“Does Bartleton talk of retiring still?”'
“Yes. He says he is sick of sending in his demand for retirement. That they always say, 'We can't spare you; you must hold on a little longer. If you go out now, there's Bailey and Hammersmith, and half a dozen others will come insisting on advancement.'”