Again the laugh went round.
"Well, I don't think Roxmouth will have a chance to go 'oh moon'-ing with our hostess,"—said Charlemont—"The whole idea of her marriage with him has been faked up by Mrs. Fred. The girl herself,—Miss Vancourt,—doesn't want him, and won't have him."
"Will you take a bet on it?" asked Mr. Bludlip Courtenay.
"Yes, if you like!" and Charlemont laughed—"I don't bet much, but
I'll bet anything you choose to name on that. Maryllia Vancourt will
never, unless she is bound, gagged and drugged into it, become
Duchess of Ormistoune."
"Shall we say a tenner?" suggested Courtenay, writing the bet down in his notebook.
"Certainly."
"Good! I take the other side. I know something of Roxmouth,—he's seldom baffled. Miss Vancourt will be the Duchess before next year!"
"Not a bit of it! Next year Miss Vancourt will still be Miss Vancourt!" said Charlemont. emphatically—"She's a woman of character, and if she doesn't intend to marry Roxmouth, nothing will make her. She's got a mind of her own,—most women's minds are the minds of their favourite men."
"He-he-te-he—te-he—he!" giggled the young man who had before spoken,—"I know a girl—-"
"Shut up, old chappie! You 'know a bank whereon the wild thyme grows'—that's what YOU know!" said Charlemont. "Come and have a look at the motor."