“Ah! the poor dear Count!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, while Martha prolonged the echo.
“You carry on the war tolerably well, notwithstanding,” said Haggerstone, who knew something of the other's resources in piquet and ecarte.
“Carry on de war!” rejoined he, indignantly; “wid my fader, who work in de mines; and my beautiful sisters, who walk naked about de streets of Crakow!”
“What kind of climate have they in Crak-Crak-Crak—” A fit of coughing finished a question which nobody thought of answering; and Purvis sat down, abashed, in a corner.
“Arthur, my love,” said Mrs. Ricketts, she was great at a diversion, whenever such a tactic was wanted, “do you hear what Colonel Haggerstone has been saying?”
“No, dearest,” muttered the old General, as he worked away with rule and compass.
“He tells me,” said the lady, still louder, “that the Onslows have separated. Not an open, formal separation, but that they occupy distinct apartments, and hold no intercourse whatever.”
“Sir Stafford lives on the rez de chaussee” said Haggerstone, who, having already told the story seven times the same morning, was quite perfect in the recital, “Sir Stafford lives on the rez de chaussee, with a small door into the garden. My Lady retains the entire first floor and the grand conservatory. George has a small garcon apartment off the terrace.”
“Ho! very distressing!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, whose woe-worn looks seemed to imply that she had never heard of a similar incident before; “and how unlike us, Arthur!” added she, with a smile of beaming affection. “He has ever been what you see him, since the day he stole my young, unsuspecting heart.”
The Colonel looked over at the object thus designated, and, by the grin of malice on his features, appeared to infer that the compliment was but a sorry one, after all.