“Are you quite sure?”
“Positive.”
“Then she can’t be young now,” said Lady Kenilworth, with relief and satisfaction.
“Oh, yes, she is; at least, quite young enough,” said Brancepeth vaguely.
“Oh, I know all about her!” continued his friend. “She is not in society. We stand a good deal in London, but at present we don’t receive divorced women.”
Brancepeth laughed softly with vast amusement, and did not offer any explanation of his laughter.
“Such eyes!” he murmured dreamily. His friend was silent. After a while—“Oh, Lord, such eyes!”
“My dear Harry,” said Mouse, with cold dignity, “pray spare me your lyrics, and go and write them in the porter’s book at the private hotel. You could probably approach the lady without the formula of introduction; a bouquet would do it for you.”
Brancepeth shook his head mournfully.
“Not that sort,” he said gloomily. “And you needn’t be in such a wax about it, Mouse; she’s gone back to the Continent this morning. They told me so at the hotel just now.”