"Possibly she doesn't consider it," observed Pendleton. "Possibly she accepts the condition and makes the best of it. I've never noticed that she seemed to feel it in the least."
"Which makes her all the more thoroughbred," Burgoyne declared.
The other nodded. "Just so—and what is more, I've yet to hear her retail scandal or malicious gossip, criticise her friends or acquaintances, or question their motives. Pretty remarkable in a woman, Sheldon."
"Exceptional, indeed," Burgoyne agreed. "But it comports with her presence. She is an exceptional looking girl. Her tout ensemble is wonderfully attractive—to me, at least."
"You're not the only one to observe it, my friend, as I think I told you. Ask Devereux, if you doubt. He says every blithering idiot in the Club is hot foot after her—himself included. Are you going to get in the running also?"
"There appears to be too much competition—the pace is too fast for me. Why haven't you been in it yourself?"
"For the same reason—and one other: I'm too old," Pendleton chuckled amiably.
"Poor chap!" Burgoyne observed. "Who would ever have thought it to look at you!"
"Age is as one feels," said Pendleton. "I feel sixty—therefore I'm not chasing after the petticoats. I leave that for those younger in years and spirit. I am content to stand back and look on—to sniff the battle from afar, like the old war horse."
"Who always has another battle in him," rejoined Burgoyne. "However, I would be quite satisfied to have you look on were I a contestant. The Honorable Montague Pendleton is, I fancy, a dangerous rival for any woman's affections."