“What are your prospects then?” resumed Lady Isabel.
“Prospects! Do you see that little ragged boy throwing stones into the harbor?—it is well the police don’t drop upon him,—ask him what his prospects are, and he will stare you in the face, and say, ‘None.’ Mine are on a like par.”
“You may succeed Sir Peter yet.”
“I may, but I may not. When those old idiots get a young wife—”
“Have you quarreled with Sir Peter?” interrupted Lady Isabel.
“I should quarrel with him as he deserves, if it would do any good, but I might get my allowance stopped. Self interest, you see, Lady Isabel, is the order of the day with most of us.”
“Do you propose staying in Boulogne long?”
“I don’t know. As I may find amusement. Paris is a fast capital, with its heated rooms and its late hours, and I came down for the refreshment of a few sea dips. Am I walking too fast for you?”
“You increased your pace alarmingly when you spoke of Sir Peter’s marriage. And I am not sorry for it,” she added, good-naturedly, “for it has proved to me how strong I am getting. A week ago I could not have walked half so fast.”
He interrupted with eager apologies, and soon they reached her home. Captain Levison entered with her—uninvited. He probably deemed between connections great ceremonies might be dispensed with, and he sat a quarter of an hour, chatting to amuse her. When he rose, he inquired what she meant to do with herself in the afternoon.