"And when do you intend to join me, Moncrief?" said Colonel Wilton.
"Not later than this day week."
"I hope not. For I have no fancy for being alone in my glory."
The conversation flowed somewhat intermittently until the waiter, placing wine and olives on the table, left the friends alone.
"Help yourself," said Colonel Wilton, pushing the claret toward Major Moncrief. "Do you know, I have had an interview with that curious old hermit, Lord St. George, to-day?"
"Indeed! How did that come about?"
"I found a note from him at the club this morning, inviting me, very politely, to call any day after three. So, as I hope not to see London again for some months, I went at once."
"You are his heir, are you not?"
"To his barren title—yes; but he can will away his wealth as he likes. Poor old fellow! He had an only child, a lovely girl, I believe, and, after refusing some of the best matches in England, she ran off with an artist fellow who played the fiddle, or sang divinely, and the viscount never forgave her. I only know the general gossip, but I have been told she died in frightful poverty. I ventured to say a word in favor of the possible and probable children, and was soon pulled up for my pains. How idiotic women are, and yet how keen and hard at times! This cousin of mine was not so very young either; she must have been four-and-twenty."
"Women are quite incomprehensible," ejaculated Moncrief.