Old Jack snorted.
“It won’t be Reggie Connolly—that I can promise you.”
“I should jolly well say not!” said that indignant young man, who had remarkably keen ears. “I’m not a marrying chap. It spoils an artist. A wife is like a millstone round his neck. He has no chance of expressing his individuality. And whilst we are on that subject, Mr. Knebworth, are you perfectly sure that I’m to blame? Doesn’t it strike you—mind you, I wouldn’t say a word against the dear girl—doesn’t it strike you that Miss Leamington isn’t quite—what shall I say?—seasoned in love—that’s the expression.”
Stella Mendoza had strolled up. She had returned to the scene of her former labours, and it looked very much as if she were coming back to her former position.
“When you say ‘seasoned’ you mean ‘smoked,’ Reggie,” she said. “I think you’re wrong.”
“I can’t be wrong,” said Reggie complacently. “I’ve made love to more girls in this country than any other five leading men, and I tell you that Miss Leamington is distinctly and fearfully immature.”
The object of their discussion appeared at the end of the studio, nodded a cheery good night to the company and went out, Michael on her heels.
“You’re fearfully immature,” he said, as he guided her across the road.
“Who said so? It sounds like Reggie: that is a favourite word of his.”
“He says you know nothing whatever about love-making.”