"Men always admire her."
"Oh, men admire anybody! They have nothing else to do. Mrs. Verulam does as well as you or I, or anyone else."
"I hear Mr. Hyacinth Rodney is simply furious about this Mr. Van Adam. They say he has left town and gone away to Mitching Dean."
"Where everything comes from. I don't wonder. Mrs. Verulam seems to have taken leave of her senses. To have a man only just divorced—a mere boy, certainly, but so handsome—over from America to spend the season with her! It's the most extraordinary proceeding! I don't think people will stand it. She's taken Ribton Marches because he has never seen an Ascot. Lady Sage is trotting about everywhere expressing her private opinion of the matter."
"What is it?"
"Oh, too straightforward to quote here. But I fancy if Mrs. Verulam isn't very careful she will get to know what the cold shoulder is at last. One can't fly in the face of—oh, what's that?"
A crash in Mr. Pettingham's direction startled the suffocating titles. Providence had been kind, and, taking pity on their increasing breathlessness, had caused the hand of the slide-manager to slip at a critical moment. The interior of Morocco strewed the floor in fragments, and the adventures of "my excellent friends, Prince Carl of Schmelzig-Heinstein and the Duke of Drigg," were brought to an abrupt and merciful termination. A blaze of electric light revealed a panorama of hot faces, heaving shoulders, gleaming tiaras, and waving fans. Mr. Pettingham stepped down, with many apologies for the unfortunate accident, into the room, offered his arm to the Princess of Galilee, and escorted her towards the supper-room, quacking loudly as he went. Conversation burst forth as if a dam had been pierced. Dowagers rose up, groups formed and dispersed. The two words "Palestine soup" floated on the surface of every mind, and a general move was made in the direction taken by the host and the Princess.
In the midst of the confusion Mrs. Verulam saw the tall and thin form of Mr. Rodney carefully—remembering the Marchioness—threading his way towards her through the throng. His eyes were fixed reproachfully upon her. And he had assumed the self-conscious air of a man recovering from a long and dangerous illness. The Duchess of Southborough followed, escorted by the shouting Mr. Ingerstall. Mrs. Verulam found herself overtaken by a shudder of boredom. She looked away, and saw the two women who had been discussing her so incautiously get up and exchange glances of dull and strangled horror on perceiving that she had been sitting so near to them. And while she felt that she hated them, she almost loved their scandal, for it seemed to set the cage-door ajar. And she fancied that she could see the squirrel—no longer Tommy, but Daisy—cease from its everlasting scramble upon the revolving gilded bars, and turn bright eyes upon the door pushed ever so little outwards, and move to it, and put his nose—just outside. That was lovely! And since it was most certainly the young gentleman in the tweed suit, now in orthodox evening-dress, who had accomplished this good beginning of a miracle, Mrs. Verulam turned to him with a quick and expressive movement of gratitude and graciousness. More than one well-bred starer noticed it, and the Verulam and Van Adam scandal marched another step onward, while Mr. Rodney began to look as if the poor, self-conscious man was rather relapsing into than recovering from his illness. However, he approached, trying not to glare at Chloe, who looked marvellously young and handsome in her man's costume, took Mrs. Verulam's hand, and said softly:
"I have just returned from Mitching Dean."