Luke Holbrook, big and good-natured, paddled across his palm-court next day to the stiff room where he knew he would find his wife writing letters.
"Seem to have made another mess of it, my love," he said mildly. "Went to Sukey Ploddy now about what you told me, and she swears it's true. Telephoned to Benhusan. He wouldn't commit himself. Very awkward, my love, having the woman here."
"Too awful," said Mrs Holbrook. "To have stolen a friend's diamonds! That's it, isn't it? Gracious!" said Mrs Holbrook, weakly. "And Daisy Ardeane coming to-day."
"Bad as the dancer, my love." Luke Holbrook stroked his fat chin. "Bad as the dancer. See the Morning Post, my love?"
He picked it up.
"'A marriage has been arranged and will take place immediately between the Marquis of Boredom and Miss Maisie Moover, of Magnificent fame.'"
"The Duchess, my love, is having hysterics at the Hyde Park Hotel. Ploddy informs me that his cousin Trentwell is attending. She cut me dead last week in the Park, my love; and all because we wished to amuse a Cabinet minister."
"That affair," said his wife, "may alter the Boredoms' missing chins. But this is important. I can't have Esmé Carteret here."
Mr Holbrook remarked that actions for libel were unpleasant, and that Carteret was an excellent fellow; then he sighed.
"The woman has been living at a ridiculous pace," snorted Mrs Holbrook. "French frocks, furs, out everywhere and in debt."