Morning Post.
Ormskirk lowered the paper. “So you have decided not to desert the club!” he remarked. “And how—may I ask?—are your plans for your ingenuous cousin’s rescue progressing, my dear Ravenscar?”
“So far, the honours go to the lady,” answered Ravenscar.
“Ah,” said his lordship, gently polishing his quizzing-glass. “Somehow, I apprehended that your efforts had not been attended by success. Am I, I wonder, correct in assuming that the lady was in your cousin’s company last night?”
“You are. They were at Vauxhall together.”
His lordship looked pensive. “At Vauxhall, were they? That seems a rather public spot, does it not? One might almost infer that the die was cast.”
“Don’t disturb yourself! I have reason to think Miss Grantham has little or no intention of marrying my cousin. Unless I am much mistaken, she is playing deep.”
Ormskirk sighed. “But how sordid!” he complained. “I hope you may not have misjudged your powers of—persuasion, my dear fellow.”
“I don’t despair because the dice fall against me in the first throw,” responded Ravenscar.
“I am sure you are a hardened gamester,” agreed Ormskirk, smiling.