“Why, there's another husband just turned up. They thought he was killed in the Caucasus, but he was only passing a few years in Siberia; and so he has come back, and claims all the emeralds. You remember, of course, that famous necklace, and the great drops! They belonged once to the Empress Catherine, but Mabworth says that he took the concern with all its dependencies; he 'll give up his bargain, but make no compromise.”
“She's growing old, I fancy.”
“She's younger than the Sabloukoff by five good years, and they tell me she plays Beauty to this hour.”
Ah, Scaresby, had you known what words were these you have just uttered, or had you only seen the face of him who heard them, you had rather bitten your tongue off than suffered it to fashion them!
“Brignolles danced with her at that celebrated fête given by the Prince of Orleans something like eight-and-thirty years ago.”
“And how is the dear Duke?” asked Upton, sharply.
“Just as you saw him at the Court of Louis XVIII.; he swaggers a little more as he gets more feeble about the legs, and he shows his teeth when he laughs, more decidedly since his last journey to Paris. Devilish clever fellows these modern dentists are! He wants to marry; I suppose you 've heard it.”
“Not a word of it. Who is the happy fair?”
“The Nina, as they call her now. She was one of the Delia Torres, who married, or didn't marry, Glencore. Don't you remember him? He was Colonel of the Eleventh, and a devil of a martinet he was.”
“I remember him,” said Upton, dryly.