"You used to be a great man at tableaux, Carrington," says Sir George; "and I shall never forget seeing Lady Blanche once as Guinevere."
Her ladyship raises her white lids and smiles faintly.
"You were Lancelot, Gore, on that occasion," continues this well-meaning but blundering young man. "You remember, eh?"
"Distinctly—quite as if it happened yesterday," replies Sir Mark, with a studied indifference little suited to the emphatic words. "Have some of this hot cake, Thornton? You are eating nothing."
"Thanks: I don't know but I will," says Chips, totally unabashed. "You could hardly give me anything I like so well as hot cake for breakfast."
"You will make a point of remembering that, I trust, Mrs. Carrington," says Sir Mark, gravely.
"Phyllis, you would look such a good Desdemona," says Bebe, who is now fairly started. "I am sure she must have been very young to let herself be beguiled into a marriage with that horrid Othello."
"And who would represent the Moor?"
"Sir Mark, I suppose: he looks more like it than any one else."
"You flatter me, Miss Beatoun," murmurs Sir Mark, with a slight bow.