"Boswell! Oh, he's different!" she said hastily. "He's more like a monkey than a friend—I mean more like a friend than a monkey. Dear little Boswell! Oh, he's quite different."
"I almost wonder you could bring yourself to part from him," said Mr. Rodney smoothly.
"By Jove! so do I. But climate, you know. What suits one monkey doesn't suit another. If you bring a monkey up in Florida, he can't live over here. It's what they're accustomed to—like people, you know!"
The close was vague, and, feeling this, Chloe pushed back her chair, and murmuring something about a "cigarette in the garden," hurried out of the room. Mr. Rodney observed her confusion, and an awful thought flashed through his brain-pan. Could it be that Mrs. Verulam was being tricked by an adventurer? Could——Lady Drake pattered in to breakfast, followed almost immediately by the Duke of Southborough.
Lady Drake, who looked, if possible, even more acidulated and demure than usual, was ravenous after the frustrated purpose of the previous night. She perched upon her chair, and stretched her small hands for various foods, with difficulty concealing cannibal instincts. The Duke reposed his lanky frame beside her, and placed his tongue in his cheek as the clown does when he conceals the red-hot poker from the policeman who will presently be frizzled. He had long been worried by Lady Drake. Now he meant to worry her.
"I hope you had a good long night, Lady Drake?" He spoke with sinister geniality.
"Very," piped Lady Drake, cutting into a cutlet with a knife that seemed trembling with eagerness.
"You slept well?" said Mr. Rodney, unconsciously backing up his Grace.