'Where?' asked Charlie, with the vague jealousy of everybody characteristic of a man in love.
'I forget. At the house of some other cad. It is rather odd, Charlie; he is the image of you to look at. When I first saw him, I thought it was you. He is just about the same height, he has the same—don't blush—the same extremely handsome face. Also he moves like you, rather slowly; but he gets there.'
'You mean I don't,' said Charlie.
'I didn't mean it that moment. Your remark again was exactly like an Englishman. But I liked him; he has force. I respect that enormously.'
On the top of Charlie's tongue was 'You mean I have none,' but he was not English enough for that.
'Is he going with her?' he asked.
'No; he has gone. He has three theatres in New York, and he is going to instal Dorothy Emsworth in one of them. Is it true, by the way——'
She stopped in the middle of her sentence.
'Probably not,' said Charlie, rather too quickly.
'You mean it is,' she said—'about Bertie.'