"Oh, no, Mazie's married. Married an army-officer, and they're living in the Philippines. Mrs. Pallinder told me the name, but I've forgotten it."
"We used to think that Bob Carson——"
"Yes. Bob's never married—he was awfully in earnest. Remember what a sweet voice he had? They used to get him to sing 'Comfort ye, my people,' in Trinity the last Sunday in Advent, don't you remember? Poor old Bob!"
"Rich old Bob, you'd better say! He's made a lot of money. Susie's children will get it all, most likely. He's very fond of them; he sent the youngest girl to Europe last year to study music, somebody told me. Maybe, if Mazie knew, she'd be sorry she wouldn't have him. But it's better so; they wouldn't have been happy. Do you suppose he ever asked her, though?"
"Well, a man don't—one isn't likely to know about things like that," said J. B. somewhat embarrassed. "But I believe he did—right after the party, in the midst of the rumpus when the Pallinders were getting it right and left from everybody."
"And she refused him? I think it was fine of Bob to ask her. Like you and Muriel, wasn't it?"
"Hey?" said J. B., very much startled. A sudden flush appeared on his amiable, middle-aged countenance; he goes clean-shaven now, he who was so gallantly moustached in eighty-three—such are the mutations of fashion.
"I mean in the play—in 'Mrs. Tankerville,'" I added hastily.
"Oh, the play—oh, yes, I remember." He looked down meditatively, fingering the stem of his wine-glass as we sat at luncheon. Muriel would not have refused him, had she been asked in good earnest; I wondered if he knew it—but I think he was at once too gallant and too simple—honest, kindly J. B.!
"I saw her when I was over this last time," he said. "She's the Countess of Yedborough now, you know. She's got eight children! The oldest girl looks something like her, but not so handsome as her mother was at her age—oh, not to compare. She was the handsomest woman I ever saw."