Image lit another of his French cigarettes, and then he said gently, “And have you any designs on the pretty sister?”
“Yes,” said Gilbert, with a curious thoughtful deliberation. “I think—I think I shall marry her.”
A look flashed into his godfather’s eyes at the—to him—curious way in which a young man expressed his intention of asking a woman to confer the greatest honour upon him. But the modern young man was always astounding Carey Image and making him wonder if he had lost his bearings in India or if some mischievous god had deliberately turned things upside down.
“I was going to ask you if you had any plans other than worldly.... Is Miss Iverson likely to do you the honour to——?”
Gilbert broke in rather abruptly. The subtle reproof had passed him by, immersed as he was in his own thoughts. “You know the family? Mrs. Iverson was Sybil Daunton-Pole, and Geoffrey Iverson is Lord Creagh’s third son.”
“Why, of course; I wondered why the name was familiar.” A light broke in on him and he became animated. “I remember—why, yes. She was the woman who made such a sensation when she was first presented, and her portrait was painted as Circe and exhibited at the Academy? A lovely creature.”
Gilbert nodded. “Time has taken his toll now.”
Image was searching back many years. “Let me see, and wasn’t she supposed to be a Circe in real life? Wasn’t there a story about her and a member of Parliament——?”
“Oh! a hundred stories. One of the most talked-of women in London.”
“A certain Royal personage was supposed——”