“No good?”
“I did not say so.”
“Never mind me,” said his companion, seating himself on the bulwark, and swinging one long leg. “Women are frauds—most of them.”
“Well for you that your wife is not within earshot!”
“She would vow that it showed I was enjoying myself. That’s a delusion she holds on to. Keep your liberty—there you have my advice. As for Anne Dalrymple, I’ve an idea there was something on with her this season, but I don’t listen to society crams, and I’ve heard no particulars.”
The red rag was irritating Wareham.
“This was not a society cram. We’ll leave it alone, however. Miss Dalrymple is your wife’s friend.”
For the first time a smile flitted across Colonel Martyn’s lantern visage.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “say as much or as little as you like. So long as you don’t hold me responsible for the freaks of my wife’s friends, I’m indifferent, profoundly indifferent, as to what is thought of them. Only wish they’d carry out this sort of amusement without me. I’m no use. Can’t speak a word of the lingo. Miss Dalrymple’s handsome, that I’ll own—there she has the pull over most of Blanche’s cronies—but I don’t doubt she behaved badly—”
“Mrs Martyn wants the key of her bag,” said a voice at his elbow. He swung round guiltily to face Anne Dalrymple.