The beef-eaters, also, were not absolutely contented, away from their own country and the haunts wherein they were wont to brag, to drink and to swagger. Yielding at last to their importunities, Adam returned with the pair to London.
Once in the foggy capital again, he was soon pounced upon, by old associates, with whom he found it exhilarating once again to consort. A treatise on rare violins and their makers, over which he had labored and pondered for months, or even years, was now neglected.
He sharpened his wits, had a look at his sword and brightened up his disused tinsel of conversation. He soon began to believe the greatest forgetfulness, after all, is where the Babel of tongues is loudest, and that the most absolute solitude is to be found in the midst of the largest throng.
The social functions of the new King were fewer, less brilliant and not to be compared, in point of popularity, with those of James. The Dukes, the Marchionesses and lesser lights were therefore constrained to make the more of their private parties. There was, in consequence, no stint of hunting, drinking and dancing—all as condiments poured about the omniprevalent piece de resistance—making love.
At the Duchess of Kindlen’s, Adam found the set he had known particularly well. He was welcomed back to their circle as a long-lost fixture without whose presence no one was at all able to explain how they had managed to go on existing. They fitted him back in his niche with a promptness which might have been flattering, had he not been aware that they wished merely to feed upon him as a new entertainer, or an old one refurbished.
He was not surprised to learn that Lady Violet had been married in his absence. He was duly informed of this event, which he described as an irreparable calamity in his life, by Lady Margaret, who was more of a brilliant blossom of feminine charm and enticements than even before.
“But you, my dear Lady Margaret,” he said, “you have been true to my memory? You have never learned to love another?”
“I never learned to love you, Adam,” she said.
“Then it must have been a matter of spontaneous combustion,” he concluded. “You always did manage your compliments adroitly.”
“Confirmed villain,” she answered, “a woman would be mad who loved such a bubble of flattering reflections as you have always been.”