“Yes; I’ve noticed that your husband has very large ideas. Is he really an idiot, the young man?”
“An idiot? Not in the least; he’s charming. When he was twelve years old I myself was in love with him.”
“He doesn’t look much more than twelve to-day,” Lord Warburton rejoined vaguely, looking about him. Then with more point, “Don’t you think we might sit here?” he asked.
“Wherever you please.” The room was a sort of boudoir, pervaded by a subdued, rose-coloured light; a lady and gentleman moved out of it as our friends came in. “It’s very kind of you to take such an interest in Mr. Rosier,” Isabel said.
“He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yard long. I wondered what ailed him.”
“You’re a just man,” said Isabel. “You’ve a kind thought even for a rival.”
Lord Warburton suddenly turned with a stare. “A rival! Do you call him my rival?”
“Surely—if you both wish to marry the same person.”
“Yes—but since he has no chance!”
“I like you, however that may be, for putting your self in his place. It shows imagination.”