“Now you’re talking as everybody talked in that dreadful play I went to last night,” said Lucia. “Dear Olga was there: she is singing to-morrow, is she not? And you are assuming that Babs is guilty. How glad I am, Adele, that you are not on the jury! I take quite the other view: a woman with a wretched home like that must have a man with whom she is friends. I think it was a pure and beautiful affection between Babs and Woof-dog, such as any woman, even if she was happily married, might be proud to enjoy. There can be no doubt of Lord Middlesex’s devotion to her, and really—I hope this does not shock you—what their relations were concerns nobody but them. George Sand and Chopin, you know. Nelson and Lady Hamilton. Sir Andrew Moss—he was the Judge, you know—dined here the other night; I’m sure he is broadminded. He gave me an admission card to the court.... Ah, Stephen, there you are. Come in, my dear. You know Lady Brixton, don’t you? We were talking of Babs Shyton. Bring up your chair. Let me see, no sugar, isn’t it? How you scolded me when I put sugar into your tea by mistake the other day!”
She held Stephen’s hand for as long as anybody might, or, as Browning says, “so very little longer,” and Adele saw a look of faint surprise on his face. It was not alarm, it was not rapture, it was just surprise.
“Were you there?” he said. “No verdict yet, I suppose.”
“Not till to-morrow, but then you will see. Adele has been horrid about her, quite horrid, and I have been preaching to her. I shall certainly ask Babs to dine some night soon, and you shall come, if you can spare an evening, but we won’t ask Adele. Tell me the news, Stephen. I’ve been in court all day.”
“Lucia’s quite misunderstood me,” said Adele. “My sympathy is entirely with Babs: all I blame her for is being found out. If you and I had an affair, Mr. Merriall, we should receive the envious sympathy of everybody, until we were officially brought to book. But then we should acquiesce in even our darling Lucia’s cutting us. And if you had an affair with anybody else—I’m sure you’ve got hundreds—I and everybody else would be ever so pleased and interested, until—— Mark that word ‘until.’ Now I must go, and leave you two to talk me well over.”
Lucia rose, making affectionate but rather halfhearted murmurs to induce her to stop.
“Must you really be going, Adele?” she said. “Let me see, what am I doing to-morrow—Stephen, what is to-morrow, and what am I doing? Ah yes, Bertie Alton’s private view in the morning. We shall be sure to meet there, Adele. The wretch has done two caricatures of Pepino and me. I feel as if I was to be flayed in the sight of all London. Au revoir, then, dear Adele, if you’re so tired of us. And then the opera in the evening: I shall hardly dare to show my face. Your motor’s here, is it? Ring, Stephen, will you? Such a short visit, and I expect Olga will pop in presently. All sorts of messages to her, I suppose. Look in again, Adele: propose yourself.”
On the doorstep Adele met Tony Limpsfield. She hurried him into her motor, and told the chauffeur not to drive on.
“News!” she said. “Lucia’s going to have a lover.”
“No!” said Tony in the Riseholme manner.