Mrs. Verulam put up a pale-blue parasol.
"Certainly," she said, idly watching Lady Cynthia Green, who was making puns to Sir Brigham Lockbury in the middle distance—"certainly."
"Mrs. Verulam," he continued, without much subtlety of exposition, "you are marching to your doom—you are indeed! And all for what?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well, all for which—whom?" he cried in an under voice, seeking grammar. "Do you know? Are you not being deceived?"
"My dear friend, that lunch in the Guards' Enclosure has not suited you. You ought to be more careful."
"It is not lunch. It is you—it is him—it is Lord Bernard's letter," said Mr. Rodney, stating facts with extraordinary rapidity and looking distracted.
"Lord Bernard's letter?" said Mrs. Verulam, who had not succeeded in being alone with Chloe since breakfast.
"I heard from him this morning," said Mr. Rodney. And he proceeded to condense his lordship's information. Mrs. Verulam listened in silence. "What does this mean?" concluded Mr. Rodney, passionately flicking a speck of dust from his left coat-sleeve. "Is Lord Bernard mad? Is he misinformed?"