"I should have done better to stick to the stage," she vowed.
"If you're wishing you hadn't married me because you'd like to be doing this sort of thing," said Tony, "you can spare your regrets. This, my dear Doodles, is the rottenest show I ever saw in my life."
"But it's a success."
"Only because it's so devilish peculiar. If I walked down Bond Street in pajamas I should attract a certain amount of attention the first time I did it, but people would get used to it, and I should soon be forgotten. By the way, would you like to send round a card?"
"No, no," said Dorothy. "I've seen quite enough of her from where we are."
"Don't get bitter, Doodles. I don't know what's come over you lately. You seem to hate everything and everybody."
That winter was a miserable one, because Tony took to baccarat again, and, having been accustomed to bet on the turf in large sums, he carried his methods to the tables with such recklessness that Dorothy, unable to stand the strain, left him in London and went down to Clare. She had a notion to kill herself out hunting, but even in this she was unsuccessful, for in February all the hunters, including Mignonette, were sold. Moreover, at the end of the month a valuer arrived with an authorization from Tony to complete the details for a forthcoming auction of the whole property as it stood, pictures and all. Dorothy hastened up to London and demanded what was the matter.
"The matter is that I've got to sell Clare."
"Sell Clare?" she repeated. "I suppose you mean mortgage it?"
"Mortgage it? It's mortgaged already."