"Delighted!" said Bayle as he, too, rose—"only unfortunately I ought at this moment to be at Wimbledon."
He had the air of a typical official, well dressed, suave, and infinitely self-possessed, as he held out his hand—deprecatingly—to Lady Leven.
"Oh! you private secretaries!" said Betty, pouting and turning away from him.
"Don't abolish us," he said, pleading. "We must live."
"Je n'en vois pas la nécessité!" said Betty, over her shoulder.
"Betty, what a babe you are!" cried her husband, as Bayle, Watton, and
Bennett all disappeared together.
"Not at all!" cried Betty. "I wanted to get some truth out of somebody.
For, of course, the real truth is that this Miss Sewell is—"
"Is what?" said Leven, lost in admiration all the time, as Lady Maxwell saw, of his wife's dainty grace and rose-leaf colour.
"Well—a—minx!" said Betty, with innocent slowness, opening her blue eyes very wide; "a mischievous—rather pretty—hard-hearted—flirting—little minx!"
"Really, Betty!" cried Lady Maxwell. "Where have you seen her?"