"Well," commenced Mr. Rodney, with the manner of a budding anarchist throwing his first bomb, "Lady Sage and one or two others—leading la——" he thought of the Era, and hastily substituted "leading women, take the matter so seriously that—oh, my dear Mrs. Verulam, do pray forgive me! they are actually intending not to see you—when you are there, you understand."
"They want to cut me, in fact?"
Mr. Rodney really blushed and was silent, giving consent.
"If they do so, what will follow?" said Mrs. Verulam, with a great deal of apparent composure.
"Follow!" cried Mr. Rodney, with all his force and eloquence. "Death!"
"Indeed! Is Lady Sage to be the corpse, or am I?"
"You!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Mrs. Verulam, think of it! Social death, ostracism, exile—er—er——" He tried to think of further words bearing a similar signification, but failing, added: "Do you realise my meaning? Do you see the gulf that is opening out beneath your very feet?"
"Indeed I do, with very great pleasure."
"Pleasure!"