"He always is," says Dorian.
"And he has brought a friend with him. And who do you think it is?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," says Branscombe, turning a vivid red.
"Why, my Mr. Kennedy!"
"Your Mr. Kennedy?" reiterates he, blankly, his red becoming a crimson of the liveliest hue.
"Yes, the dark thin young man I met at Sir John Lincoln's. I dare say I told you about him?"
"Yes, you did," says Dorian, grimly.
"I see him over there," pointing airily with her fan through the open conservatory door to a distant wall where many young men are congregated together.
"The man with the nose?" asks Branscombe, slightingly, feeling sure in his soul he is not the man with the nose.
"He has a nose," says Miss Broughton, equably, "though there isn't much of it. He is very like a Chinese pug. Don't you see him? But he is so nice."