[CHAPTER XXV]
"I beg you fifty thousand pardons," bawled Lord Petersham to me one morning from his or some other person's gay barouche, as I stood at my drawing-room balcony; "but, to save time, will you answer me one single question from your window? I only want a yes or a no as I am sure I can take your word."
My house being half in the country, I begged his lordship to make as free as he pleased.
"Did you," asked his lordship, forcing a little, mean-looking man, who was seated next to him, to stand up upon his two feet while I surveyed him, "did you ever see this man in your born days?"
"Never, to my knowledge," was my reply.
"Then you can declare, at all events, that you never made his acquaintance?" asked Petersham.
"Certainly, I can: and your friend will unhesitatingly confirm the truth of what I assert."
"Tout au contraire," said Petersham, "he has been amusing us with an account of a former petite affaire du coeur he had with you."
"He does me honour," I rejoined, "although he knows I was never so completely blessed as to have been in his society."
"That's quite enough," said Petersham, giving me a significant little wink with his left eye, kissing his hand, and driving off, all at the same moment.