“Why do you quote Robert?” she said carelessly; “isn't your opinion enough for me?”
“Can you pretend that his opinion has no weight with you?”
She laughed, and stroked his arm.
“My dear, why should I pretend anything? To tell the truth, I am surprised that Orange has noticed me. I saw Mrs. Parflete to-day. I understand his infatuation.”
“I have always told you that she was a very pretty woman. But why is it that, no matter where we start, we always come back to Orange? I am getting sick of him. I dislike being affiché, as it were, to some one else. This marriage of his pursues me. If I go into a club, if I dine, if I ride, if I walk—ten to one if I am not pelted with questions about Mrs. Parflete, or Robert's history, or his genius, or his future plans. I must drop him.”
“Drop him?” she exclaimed.
“Yes. It doesn't help me to appear so friendly with a Roman. I know he is very fine, but I have to consider my own position. They all say that it would be madness to take the chair now at his meeting.”
“But it was your meeting, Beauclerk.”
“In the first place, perhaps. I thought, too, it might be a good, independent move. Disraeli's invitation to Hanborough puts another complexion on affairs. It is the first formal recognition that he, as Leader, has ever given me. It is a reminder of my responsibilities. He is fond of Orange, I know, and he wouldn't hurt his feelings, or seem to put a spoke in his wheel, for all the world. But Dizzy is subtle. He likes to test one's savoir vivre.”
“Shall you tell Orange that you intend to throw him over?”