"Yes, he's had three. All died like sheep. Something ailed 'em, I dare say. I'm advising him to get another, and 'pon my soul, Americans seem to be the fashion, he, he!"
A sudden shock not far from disgust thrilled Theodora. Three wives already—and he not a day over forty-five, apparently. As in a dream she heard the marquis's tremulous old voice saying something she only half understood. But in a moment or two she pulled herself together. After all it was an illiberal prejudice. Should a man's domestic misfortune be made a subject of reproach to him?
In a moment Sir John came to fetch her and carried her back to Mrs. Wodehouse. Then that lady began the same inexplicably aggressive tactics toward him again. But it was in vain. He was not to be frozen out or bullied, and if ever a man was winged at the first shot, it was Sir John Blood. He hovered near Theodora, asked permission to call, and showed in every way a passionate admiration for her.
But Sir John was not the only one who bit the dust, so to speak, in consequence of Theodora's charms. She levied on the Church as well as the state. An archbishop, although attended by a body guard of four hawk-eyed single daughters, suddenly found himself deep in a roaring flirtation with this new star of the West, and it can not be said that his Grace did not hold up his end of the line valiantly. The four single daughters stood like a Roman phalanx against all widows, whom they considered their natural enemies, but it never occurred to them to be on their guard against anything as young and apparently as artless as Theodora—they being unfamiliar with the type of the wily American maiden, who, under an exterior as harmless as a dove, conceals the wisdom of the serpent. In addition to the archbishop, a general officer, who had gone through eighteen London seasons without a scratch, was slain at Theodora's first fire, and as for the lieutenants, the slaughter was fearful. It was a Waterloo, and Theodora was a she-Wellington.
At last the ball was over. Theodora and her party were rolling homeward. A certain constraint existed among them, and Sir John Blood's name was not once mentioned. When they reached home all the ladies scurried into a cozy morning room, where a sleepy footman gave them tea. A little fire crackled on the hearth, and what will not a wood fire do toward unlocking the secret confidences of the female breast? Therefore, as Mrs. Wodehouse saw Theodora's tiny satin slippered feet seek hers in friendly juxtaposition on the fender, a sudden determination seized her to make a clean breast of it all.
"Theodora," she said, "do you know anything about Sir John Blood, who was so attentive to you to-night?"
"Nothing in the world except that he is very distinguished looking, very sensible, and lives in the next house," answered Theodora, debonairly.
"And will be Marquis of Longacre when that old stuffed penguin dies we saw to-night. I'd rather have a poor lieutenant with a Tel-el-Kebir medal—" began Anne, but as usual was promptly cut short. This time it was Mrs. Wodehouse who broke in, after putting down her cup in some agitation.
"Theodora, do you know Sir John's domestic history?"
"I know he has had three wives," answered Theo with much indifference, as if three wives were the usual allowance.