"H'm--all about the poor," said Lady Niton, releasing her hand from the knitting-needles, and waving it scornfully at the room in which they sat. "Well, if Oliver were to tell me from now till doomsday that his heart bled for the poor, I shouldn't believe him. It doesn't bleed. He is as comfortable in his middle region as you or I."
Bobbie laughed.
"Now look here, I'm simply famished for gossip, and I must have it." Lady Niton's ball of wool fell on the floor. Bobbie pounced upon it, and put it in his pocket. "A hostage! Surrender--and talk to me! Do you belong to the Mallory faction--or don't you?"
"Give me my ball, sir--and don't dare to mention that girl's name in this house."
Bobbie opened his eyes.
"I say!--what did you mean by writing to me like that if you weren't on the right side?"
"What do you mean?"
"You can't have gone over to Lady Lucy and the Fotheringham woman!"
Lady Niton looked at him with a queer expression of contempt in her tanned and crumpled face.
"Is that the only reason you can imagine for my not permitting you to talk of Diana Mallory in this house?"