"Not that I know of," replied Theodore, with his correct air, and an odd effect, as though his white cravat and shirt-front had been suddenly petrified.
"Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said something of the sort."
"By Jove, more unlikely things have happened," put in Mr. Dormer-Smith jocosely. "He's exposing himself to a tremendous fire. Dangerous work for a fellow to live under the roof of a lovely and captivating woman who sets him up as a kind of 'guide, philosopher, and friend,'—eh?"
"Dangerous! I should think the end of that arrangement is a foregone conclusion!" exclaimed Lady Moppett. "Mr. Rivers is a very agreeable young fellow—when he isn't talking about music. But who's your 'lovely and captivating woman?' Does anybody know her?"
There was an instant's pause, during which Pauline cast an expressive glance of the most poignant reproach at her husband. Then Theodore answered very gravely, "Mr. Dormer-Smith was merely jesting. The lady is Mrs. Martin Bransby—my father's widow."