"Rheumatism, undoubtedly," the Vicar said slyly.
A boyish laugh greeted the thrust.
"Shall we call it curiosity? Hang the game! What does it matter? You put a bit of india-rubber into a flower-pot and think you are a better man than I am. But you're not. I'd play you any day for the poor-box. Let's talk of something else—Lady Evelyn, for instance."
"Will she marry him, Frederick?"
"Him—the sandy-haired foreigner with the gypsy friends?"
"Is there any other concerned?"
"Oh, don't ask me. Do I keep her pocket-book?"
"I wish you did, my dear fellow. From every point of view, this marriage would be deplorable."
"From every point of view but that of the two people concerned, perhaps. She is a girl with a will of her own—do you think she would marry him if she didn't like him?"
"She might, from spite. There are better reasons, perhaps worse. You told me at their first meeting that you believed her to be in love with him."