‘Lady Carmine, Lady Swanage—if it is your wish?’ interposed the colonel.
She dealt him a forgiving smile. ‘And that pleasant-looking old gentleman?’
Colonel Corfe drew-up. Fenellan said: ‘Are we veterans at forty or so?’
‘Well, it ‘s the romance, perhaps!’ She raised her shoulders.
The colonel’s intelligence ran a dog’s nose for a lady’s interjections. ‘The romance?... at forty, fifty? gone? Miss Julinks, the great heiress and a beauty; has chosen him over the heads of all the young men of his time. Cranmer Lotsdale. Most romantic history!’
‘She’s in love with that, I suppose.’
‘Now you direct my attention to him,’ said Fenellan, ‘the writing of the romantic history has made the texture look a trifle thready. You have a terrible eye.’
It was thrown to where the person stood who had first within a few minutes helped her to form critical estimates of men, more consciously to read them.
‘Your brother stays in England?’
‘The fear is, that he’s off again.’