"Look, Addie—there are some visitors coming up the avenue! Who are they?" asks Armstrong hastily, with much apparent interest.
"By Jove," exclaims Everard, his ruddy face turning green with jealousy, "if it's not Stanhope Peckham again! Every time I come to this house I find that sprawling bru—fellow, tracking my footsteps. By Heaven, it would be too monotonous if it were not so exasperating! How any woman can stand a man who wears such trousers and such collars beats my comprehension! Of all the howling Bond Street cads I ever—I say, Mrs. Armstrong, do you know what little Loo Hawker christened him? Sharp girl, that little Loo! Collared Head—ha, ha! Collared Head!"
"Collared Head! How?"
"Don't you see? Because his face is so mottled and spotty, and his collars throttle him up to the ears, Collared Head—by Jove, it's about the best thing I ever heard! If 'Punch' could only get hold of it! Collared Head—ha, ha!"
"Addie," says Armstrong, in a low voice, "I want to say something to you. Will you come into my study for a few minutes?"
"Yes. What is it?"
"I am going away—"
"Going away! Where—when—how long?"