“I am aware.”
“Naturally. She should have been an Abbess—ah, an entremetteuse, Chevalier! The fair Olivia is for sale to the highest bidder.”
“Sir Henry Gosford? The thought revolts!”
The pike was open, and Mr. Westruther set his pair in motion again, keeping them rigidly to a sedate pace, unusual in him. “Gosford, if Olivia will have him,” he agreed. “He is wealthy—a matter of primary importance to Mrs. Broughty; and he is besotted enough to offer marriage—not, I fancy, so important, but still desirable.”
“You appal me!” the Chevalier exclaimed. “It cannot be that the woman would allow that beautiful innocent to become a man’s mistress!”
Mr. Westruther laughed softly. “Unless I miss my bet, d’Evron, Mrs. Broughty, until she entrapped the late Broughty into marriage, was herself what we call a prime article—of Covent Garden notoriety, you know! I should suppose that that way of life may not appear to her so undesirable as it seems to appear to you.”
“Horrible! It is horrible to think of such a thing in connection with that girl!” the Chevalier said vehemently.
“My dear young friend, are you picturing the fair Olivia in the Magdalen?” said Mr. Westruther, with a touch of impatience. “There is not the least reason to suppose that she would not enjoy a varied and a luxurious career, and, in all probability, end her days in a state of considerable affluence. We do not all of us cast our mistresses naked upon the world, you know!”
“Sir!” said the Chevalier, trying to control his agitation. “You have been frank! I shall ask you to pardon me if I too speak without restraint! Is it thus that you desire mademoiselle?”
“It is certainly not as my wife,” replied Mr. Westruther, rather haughtily.