"But what I simply can't stand," pursued the injured maiden plaintively, "is her making herself out to be somebody—pretending to be that man's wife——"
"Ah, well! this can't be me. I don't pretend to be anybody's wife," thought Ermengarde.
"She is his wife," Agatha said.
"Or one of his wives. He may have dozens for all we know——"
"Dorris, my dear," faltered her poor mother, blushing wildly.
"Well, mater, so he may; that kind of man often does. And, as I said before, nobody knows anything about her, or whether she has any husband at all—she may have five—or six——"
"Seven is considered a round, complete, and therefore sacred, number, though the wife of Bath only had five," observed Mr. Welbourne thoughtfully.
"Bath! What Bath? D'you mean Lord Bath's wife?" Dorris asked. "And did he get her divorced?"
"For the Land's sake, Miss Boundrish," shouted Mrs. Dinwiddie, the American lady, "if you don't just tickle me to death! Lord Bath——" while the thin man chuckled grimly to himself.
"I never can remember about titled people," Dorris complained bitterly, as if this defect of memory was owing to the malice of present company. "And I should have thought that Americans never knew anything to forget," she added vindictively.