"A cool card," he whistled to himself, as he disappeared.
Meanwhile, Gerard Strobridge was saying to the lady at his side:
"I had to repudiate Warrington's insolence in the Central Gazette to-night. I have written to the Times—that is what made me keep even you waiting, dearest lady. My aunt's new shorthand typist took it down, and I shall send it off in a few minutes. I hope it will not be too late."
"You look quite serious, G.," the lady laughed. "It is too attractive to see you in earnest over something!"
"I am always in earnest—especially when I tell you that I love you—why did you not come this afternoon, Läo, I stayed late on purpose and you never turned up."
"I knew I should meet you to-night, G.—and I do not want soon to grow bored!"
Mr. Strobridge looked at her reproachfully. She was extremely pleasant to the eye, with her marvellous skin and dark hair, and her curly affected mouth. He was a cynic and an epicurean. He was not in the least disenchanted by his knowledge that the whole woman was a mass of affectation, from the conscious pouting of her red lips to the way she held her soup spoon. He rather admired the skill she showed in it all. She pleased his senses, had just enough wit to chirp like a parrot good things others had said, and was full of small talk—while she knew the game to her finger-tips. He did not want the repetition of a serious affair since he had so happily escaped by the skin of his teeth from Alice Southerwood. Läo Delemar, widowed and rich and circumspect, promised an agreeable winter to him, with few complications.
Women were more or less necessities to Gerard Strobridge's life; they were his choruses, his solaces, his inspirations.
In a few minutes a footman brought the large envelope, and amidst general chaff he read aloud the letter, his astonishment momentarily growing at the apt rearrangement of his words.
"She is no fool, your new secretary, Seraphim," he called down the table to his aunt. "I do thank you for her services to-night."