"Why? My dear fellow, you don't suppose I'm quite blind. Any one who follows that lady about with his eyes as you do is naturally— Well—you understand—"
"I'm afraid your professional acumen is at fault this time," said the actor, and added: "I hope I may never come any nearer being married than I am now."
"Oh, I say," returned Marchmont; "don't you aspire to be her—sixteenth, is it?"
"You're alluding to Miss Arminster's husbands?" asked Spotts drily.
"Oh, I'd a little bet up with a friend," said Marchmont, "that she'd been married at least a baker's dozen times. Ought I to hedge?"
"I think you're well inside the number," replied the actor.
"Gad! she must be pretty well acquainted with the divorce courts!" exclaimed the reporter.
"I'm quite sure she's never been divorced in her life," returned Spotts. "So long. I'm after a drink." And he left him, thus terminating the conversation.
"Ah," said the journalist to himself, "I bet you're the next in line, just the same."
Baffled in his first attempt, Marchmont sought other means of information, for there is always a weak spot in every defence, and a man of far less keen perception than the reporter would have had little difficulty in finding the most favourable point of attack. So it is not surprising that after a little cogitation he went in search of Miss Matilda, whom he had met the day before when he had returned with the party from the abbey. He found that lady on the lawn knitting socks for the heathen, and deserted for the nonce by the faithful Smith.