“Who’s that you’re talking of?” said Wemyss, coming up.
“Derwent,” said Arthur. “We’re both glad he’s going.”
“Oh, Derwent is quite impossible,” said Wemyss. “He’s well enough at a dinner where they feed the lions, but quite out of his place in society. The fellow’s a crank, too; just the sort of a man who ends by marrying a woman of the demi-monde.”
“By way of reformation, I suppose,” laughed Mrs. Malgam. Arthur walked with her some time, as Wemyss left upon this last bon mot; and the next day, when they came together after breakfast, there was no trace of Derwent.
“Do you know he’s a friend of Chinese Gordon?” said Lord Birmingham.
“I should think, quite possible,” said Wemyss. “I hope we’ll get a better fellow in his place—a gentleman, at least,” he added, sotto voce.
“They say he belongs to one of the oldest families in Northumberland, do you know,” said Mrs. Hay.
“All rot,” said Wemyss; “I believe him to be a mere adventurer—nothing more.”
“Well,” said Flossie, “I’ve written to Tony Duval in his place.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Pussie. “I hate to go about with Tony; or, rather, he says he hates to go about with me. He says he can’t have any fun while I’m around.”