'Tom, look at that girl with the blue velvet hat; she is English—I'll swear she is.'
'And a regular beauty, by Jove!'
'Doocid curious place for her to be, this. She is all right, I suppose; what do you think?'
'I think it doubtful—hails from the latitude of Regent Street, I should say,' replied the other, who thought evil of everyone and everything.
'Who is that moyen-âge individual with the white horse-shoe shaped moustache and coarse ears, who seems to regard her with such a proprietary air?'
'By Jove, it is old Cadbury!' exclaimed Mr. Hawksleigh.
'Cadbury—it is!' added the baronet; 'the little party can't be particular to a shade if she is with him. She'll not set much store on the whole duty of woman.'
'What is that?' asked Hawksleigh.
'Why, to get married—to get well married, if possible, but anyhow, to get married on any terms.'
'He is a lord; but a silk purse can't be made out of a sow's ear.'