The old lady bent across the table with the gesture of a sibyl.
“Mark my words,” said she. “The régime is at an end.”
“I never prophesy in these cases,” said Cheriton. “She is a very able woman, which of course is not surprising, and George is the incarnation of sheer stupidity, which is not surprising either. All the same, Caroline, I don’t say you are not right.”
“Of course I am right,” said Caroline Crewkerne, robustly. “And I put it to you, Cheriton, what will be the next move upon the tapis?”
“George will marry,” said Cheriton, tentatively.
“Precisely,” said the old woman, nodding her head in sage approval.
“Have you selected a duchess for him?”
“Why do you ask?” said the old lady, with an air of diplomacy which amused Cheriton, because it was so unnecessary.
“I ask merely for information. If I were a sporting tipster, Priscilla L’Estrange would be my selection.”
“No,” said Caroline Crewkerne, with immense decision, “a man never marries a woman as stupid as himself. Nature’s an old fool, but she knows better than that.”