“I believe you, UNCLE,” she said affectionately. “If I can help you in any way I will.”
“This Mr. Brott! He goes very little into society, I believe.”
“Scarcely ever,” she answered. “He came to us because my husband is one of the few Radical peers.”
“You have not heard of any recent change in him—in this respect?”
“Well, I did hear Wolfendon chaffing him the other day about somebody,” she said. “Oh, I know. He has been going often to the Duchess of Dorset’s. He is such an ultra Radical, you know, and the Dorsets are fierce Tories. Wolfendon says it is a most unwise thing for a good Radical who wants to retain the confidence of the people to be seen about with a Duchess.”
“The Duchess of Dorset,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “must be, well—a middle-aged woman.”
Helene laughed.
“She is sixty if she is a day. But I daresay she herself is not the attraction. There is a very beautiful woman staying with her—the Countess Radantz. A Hungarian, I believe.”
Mr. Sabin sat quite still. His face was turned away from Helene. She herself was smiling out of the window at some acquaintances.
“I wonder if there is anything more that I can tell you?” she asked presently.