"My nephew. He comes here at times. Indeed," said Caranby gallantly, "it was his report of your beauty that brought me here to-night."
Maraquito sighed. "The wreck of a beauty," said she bitterly, "three years ago indeed—but I met with an accident."
"So I heard. A piece of orange peel."
The woman started. "Who told you that?"
"I heard it indirectly from a professor of dancing. You were a dancer, I believe?"
"Scarcely that," said Senora Gredos, nervously playing with her fan; "I was learning. It was Le Beau who told you?"
"Indirectly," responded Caranby.
"I should like to know," said Maraquito deliberately, "who has taken the trouble to tell you this. My life—the life of a shattered invalid—can scarcely interest anyone."
"I really forget to whom I am indebted for the information," said Lord Caranby mendaciously, "and a lady of your beauty must always interest men while they have eyes to see. I have seen ladies like you in Andalusia, but no one so lovely. Let me see, was it in Andalusia or Jerusalem?" mused Lord Caranby.
"I am a Spanish Jewess," said Maraquito, quickly and uneasily, "I have only been in London five years."