“You speak of what you know nothing,” carelessly answered Charlotte Pain, a self-satisfied smile upon her lips.
“Very well. When it is all over, and you find your time has been wasted, do not say I never warned you. George Godolphin may be a prize worth entering the lists for; I do not say he is not: but there is no chance of your winning him.”
Charlotte Pain tossed the dog upwards and caught him as he descended, a strange look of triumph on her brow.
“And—Charlotte,” went on Mrs. Verrall in a lower tone, “there is a proverb, you know, about two stools. We may fall to the ground if we try to sit upon both at once. How would Dolf like this expedition to Scotland, handsome George making one in it?”
Charlotte’s eyes flashed now. “I care no more for Dolf than I care for—not half so much as I care for this poor little brute. Don’t bring up Dolf to me, Kate!”
“As you please. I would not mix myself up with your private affairs for the world. Only a looker-on sometimes sees more than those engaged in the play.”
Crossing the apartment, Mrs. Verrall traversed the passage that led from it, and opened the door of another room. There sat her husband at the dessert-table, taking his wine alone, and smoking a cigar. He was a slight man, twice the age of his wife, his hair and whiskers yellow, and his eyes set deep in his head: rather a good-looking man on the whole, but a very silent one. “I want to go to London with you,” said Mrs. Verrall.
“You can’t,” he answered.
She advanced to the table, and sat down near him. “There’s Charlotte going one way, and you another——”
“Don’t stop Charlotte,” he interrupted, with a meaning nod.