“Some friend of hers, I suppose. I didn’t notice.”
“It was Frank Richardson, the man there was all that scandal about a few years ago—Lord Berwick’s wife—don’t you remember?”
“Well?”
“Well, I’m sorry he has got hold of little Langton, that is all.”
“You are sorry without cause, then. Miss Langton is a long way above his level. She can’t refuse to speak to him, for he knew her people well years ago.”
With unerring certainty Gerald Gibson had jumped to this conclusion. The other looked surprised.
“Oh, you know all about it, then? You are the favorite one for whom Miss Prim opens her lips. Well, I really am glad to hear it, for she is the flag I always hold out when old ladies tell me there are no virtuous women on the stage; and, if she were to go I don’t know where on earth I should look for another.”
“You are too cynical, Cooke.”
“Don’t shy long words at me. If I deserve them it is because I was led away to a meeting of the Society for the Mutual Improvement of the Clerical and Dramatic Professions this afternoon. Capital institution—the parsons looked happy and the pro.’s looked good. But that can’t last. Good-night.”
Aubrey Cooke was not at his best with Gibson; the two men had too little in common. But he was a clever fellow. He had a plain, silly face, a bitter tongue, and a manner which found favor with most women. He adored women. Those, however, he worshiped the most deferentially would scarcely have approved of the manner in which he spoke of them among other men in their absence, for there was a strong dash of young Paris in his adoration. He was too shrewd to make many mistakes; and no man knew better the exact tone in which to address any particular woman of his large and varied acquaintance. He bore Miss Langton no ill-will for repeated unmerited snubs; the caprices of women are infinite, prettier and less prim women abounded, and he could revenge himself so easily by an epigram—not a slanderous one, but none the less cutting—in the dressing-room.