"What's a rotter, Sir Billy?" asked Lady Jim, enjoying the disgusted looks of Hengist.
"A fellow who rots."
"What an admirable definition?"
Billy rapidly dropped his left eyelid, and showed a set of white teeth. "I don't carry coals to your Newcastle," he said parabolically. "Say, Lady Jim, chuck this chappy, and come to Charlie's Mount."
The wink and the speech were lost on Hengist, for he was being worried by Lady Richardson. She danced before him, a pretty figure gowned in burnt-almond red, and would have distracted his heart with daintiness but that Julia kept that article in the nursery.
"Do join us, Lord Hengist," she pleaded seductively. "Such fun, when you know the ropes. Billy can show them to you."
"Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings," quoted Hengist, ironically. "Quite a new reading, Lady Richardson."
"Now you are horrid," said the widow, who did not know in the least what he meant. "I'll tell your wife. By the way, how is she, and the darling, darling twins? Twins are too sweet. I wish Billy was a twin."
"One of Sir William is quite sufficient."
"I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about, and it's very horrid of you to say so. Billy is adored."