"Ah, with Lady Mitford!" said Lord Dollamore, slowly expelling a mouthful of smoke; "I have the pleasure of her acquaintance. She's very nice, Alsager!"
There was a succulence in the tone in which these last words were spoken that sounded unpleasantly on Laurence's ear; so he said shortly, "I saw Lady Mitford for the first time to-night."
"Oh, she's very nice; a little too classical and statuesque and Clite-like for my taste, which leans more to the beauté-du-diable order; but still Lady Mitford's charming. Poor little woman! she's like the young bears, with all her troubles before her."
"Her troubles won't be many, one would think," said Laurence, who was growing irritated under his companion's half-patronizing, half-familiar tone in speaking of Lady Mitford.
"Won't they?" said Lord Dollamore, with another slow expulsion of smoke; this time in the shape of rings, which he dexterously shot one through the other.
"I can't see how they should. She has beauty, wealth, and position; a young husband who dotes on her,--Oh, you needn't grin; I saw him with her in the box."
"Yes, and I saw him without her, but with Bligh and Winton, the two Clarks, who are coryphées at Drury Lane, and Mdlle. Carambola from the cirque at Leicester Square, turning in to supper at Dubourg's. Now, then, what do you say to that?"
"Nothing. Mitford told his wife he was going to supper with Bligh and Winton. I heard him."
"Very likely; but you didn't hear him mention the female element. No, of course not."
"Sir Charles Mitford being, I presume, a gentleman, that suggestion is simply absurd."