I know this'll interest you awfully. Pottleton Smith's wife's run away at last. Now wasn't I right? (Looks smilingly at both for sympathy.) I always said she would, you know.
Mrs. Denham.
Poor silly little flirt! I'm very sorry.
Fitzgerald.
(rubbing his hands) I'm—I'm awfully glad. It'll be the saving of poor Smith. Though he's awfully cut up about it, of course.
Denham.
Did she run away with—any one in particular?
Fitzgerald.
A Captain Crosby or Cosby, or something. He's in some horse regiment, the cavalry or something. He's—he's an awful scamp, a blackleg and all that, but an awfully nice fellow. I met him at Smith's the other day, and they—they—they were carrying on all the time under poor little Smith's nose. (He saunters absently to the easel and looks at the picture.) The picture—eh? It's—it's awfully good, you know—an advance on your last.