“I felt it myself, demme, that I did, horribly, madam; but I said I would be true to my friend Bray, here, and I fled from temptation like a man.”
“I’m afraid I can’t believe you—either of you,” said her ladyship, simpering. “But, now, do tell me—no, no, don’t go, Denville; I want to talk to you. Sir Harry, now was Major Rockley, that dreadful Mephistopheles, half killed?”
Sir Harry Payne screwed up his face, shook his head, took snuff loudly, and, raising his hat, walked away.
“How tantalising!” cried Lady Drelincourt. “Now, Bray, do tell me. Is it true that he was carrying off that Miss Dean, and her mother sent Colonel Mellersh and Mr Linnell to fetch them back?”
“Mustn’t tell. Can’t say a word, dear Lady Drelincourt. Brother-officer, you see. But—”
Sir Matthew Bray blew out his cheeks, frowned, rolled his eyes, pursed up his lips, and looked as if he were fully charged with important information which honour forbade him to part with, ending by shaking his head at her ladyship, and then giving it a solemn nod.
“I knew I was right,” said her ladyship triumphantly. “Now, didn’t you hear the same version, Denville?”
“Well, I—must confess, your ladyship—that I—er—did.”
“Of course. That’s it. Well, Rockley’s a very, very wicked man, and I don’t think I shall ever speak to him again. I’ve quite done with him. Yes, you may stay a little while, Bray, but not long. People are so scandalous. Good-bye, Denville. Is your little girl quite well?”
Denville declared that she was in the best of health; and, as Lady Drelincourt was wheeled away in one direction, so much fashionable lumber, the Master of the Ceremonies went mincing in the other.