"It is indeed," said the Duke; "if only you touch hands, eh, Lady Drake?"
"I think there's nothing in it; and if there is, it's exceedingly wrong," she said, with a violent effort to go on seeming respectable under the gaze of a Duke who, she now felt, believed her otherwise.
"Your cutlet is cold," the Duke said. "Let me—bring her ladyship a slice of broiled ham," he added to a footman.
The footman obeyed. Lady Drake pecked at it; even her hunger was deserting her before she had gratified it.
"Mr. Bush would make a fine medium, I fancy," continued the Duke—"a fine, steady medium. What do you say, Lady Drake?"
The little creature writhed. She was now quite certain that his Grace had suffered from insomnia the night before.
"I don't know anything about Mr. Bush," she said, letting her fork drop with a clatter.
"You have never 'sat' with him?"
"Oh dear no!"
"On the floor?" added the Duke.