“Doesn’t it, indeed! But I confess I have always been fascinated by the stage. There’s somethin’ so very romantic about livin’ in green-rooms and paintin’ your face, and—pretendin’ to be someone else.”
The other whispered in her ear.
The lorgnettes were flicked open again, and glittered upon Sir Gilders Persimmon.
“Indeed! But he is so very old—and she—but there is such a difference of social rank between a baronet’s wife and a mere painter—surely! Still, he is very old. Almost permissible sin, Gerty.”
They both tittered.
“My dear,” said the other, “you are really quite naughty.”
Sir Gilders pounced upon Fosse, whom he had followed round the room, put up a hand to aid his dull hearing, and said:
“You were speaking of dotage——”
Fosse winced uneasily:
“No, sir,” he shrieked—“I was not talking of dotage. I say that the man who does not play whist lays up a sad old age for himself.” And, turning on his heel impatiently, “The devil take the man!” said he, and walked away.