“At his age, my dear,” said she, “you had the tact to put so obvious a thing differently or leave it alone.”
“Not that I heed his impudence,” said the Duke hastily; “that a man is no longer young at sixty is the most transparent of facts.”
“Only he does not care to have it mentioned too unexpectedly. Oh, you goose!” And she laughed outright, then checked herself at the recollection of the ailing Chamberlain.
“If I would believe myself as young as ever I was, my dear lass,” said he, “credit me it is that it is more to seem so in the eyes of yourself,” and he put his arm around her waist.
“But still,” said she after a little—“still the unlucky Frenchman is in the fosse more for his want of tact, I fear, than for his crime against the law of the land. Who pinked—if that's the nasty word—who pinked the Dutchman in Utrecht?—that's what I should like to know, my dear Justice Shallow.”
“This is different, though; he came here for the express purpose—”
“Of quarrelling with the Chamberlain!”
“Well, of quarrelling with somebody, as you know,” said the nobleman hesitatingly.
“I am sorry for MacTaggart,” said the Duchess, “really sorry, but I cannot pretend to believe he has been very ill done by—I mean unjustly done by. I am sure my Frenchman must have had some provocation, and is really the victim.”
“You—that is we—know nothing about that, my dear,” said Argyll.