In the meanwhile, the Parisian world talked much of the grand fete which was about to be given by Sidonia. Coningsby heard much of it one day when dining at his grandfather’s. Lady Monmouth seemed very intent on the occasion. Even Lord Monmouth half talked of going, though, for his part, he wished people would come to him, and never ask him to their houses. That was his idea of society. He liked the world, but he liked to find it under his own roof. He grudged them nothing, so that they would not insist upon the reciprocity of cold-catching, and would eat his good dinners instead of insisting on his eating their bad ones.
‘But Monsieur Sidonia’s cook is a gem, they say,’ observed an Attaché of an embassy.
‘I have no doubt of it; Sidonia is a man of sense, almost the only man of sense I know. I never caught him tripping. He never makes a false move. Sidonia is exactly the sort of man I like; you know you cannot deceive him, and that he does not want to deceive you. I wish he liked a rubber more. Then he would be perfect.’
‘They say he is going to be married,’ said the Attaché.
‘Poh!’ said Lord Monmouth.
‘Married!’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth. ‘To whom?’
‘To your beautiful countrywoman, “la belle Anglaise,” that all the world talks of,’ said the Attaché.
‘And who may she be, pray?’ said the Marquess. ‘I have so many beautiful countrywomen.’
‘Mademoiselle Millbank,’ said the Attaché.
‘Millbank!’ said the Marquess, with a lowering brow. ‘There are so many Millbanks. Do you know what Millbank this is, Harry?’ he inquired of his grandson, who had listened to the conversation with a rather embarrassed and even agitated spirit.