"You are a sophist, I fear," I said, smiling. "See, here is Miss Martina B. Cadwallader advancing upon us. Stern virtue is on every line of her face, anyway!"
"Pardon me, Dook," she said, "but the guide to Myrlton I purchased at the station gave me to understand I should find a second portrait of Queen Elizabeth in this gallery. I cannot see it. Would you be good enough to indicate the picture to me?"
"Oh, that was a duplicate," said the Duke, resignedly. "I sold it at Christie's last year. It brought me in ten thousand pounds—more than it was worth. I lived in comfort upon it for quite six months."
"You don't say!" said Martina B. Cadwallader.
Before the party said good-night, the meanest observer could have told that things were going at sixes and sevens, no one doing exactly what was expected of them.
Signs of disturbance showed as early as the few minutes before dinner.
Lord Luffton was openly seeking the society of the heiress, with no regard to the blandishments of Lady Grenellen. But by half-past eleven the clouds had spread all round.
Augustus, perhaps, looked the most upset. He had spent an evening on thorns of jealousy. First, snubbed sharply by the fair Cordelia; then, having to witness her ineffectual attempts to detach Lord Luffton from Miss Trumpet.
The Duke, while devoting himself to me, could not quite conceal his annoyance at the turn affairs were taking.
Miss Martina B. Cadwallader was plainly irritated with her niece for not attending to the business they had come for. Babykins was exerting her mosquito propensities and stinging every one all round. In fact, only the few casual guests, who did not count one way or another, seemed calm and undisturbed.