"Why should I get rid of him?" asked Mrs. Verulam, making an angel's face at the double chin.
"There are many reasons," said the Duchess, with growing fury.
"I know of none. Poor boy! He needs me in his loneliness." And she shot a tender glance at Chloe.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the Duchess. "Gracious heavens!"
"We ought to be kind to those whom the world has treated cruelly," Mrs. Verulam continued, with high morality and a rather episcopal demeanour. "Poor dear Mr. Van Adam! Poor dear fellow!" And she breathed an effective, though quite gentle sigh.
To say that this sigh extracted a snort from the Duchess would be ridiculous. She expressed her feeling in a blast, suddenly heaved herself out of her chair, announced like a thunder-clap afflicted with the vibrato: "I'm very ill! I'm much upset!" and marched out of the purple drawing-room with all the gestures appropriate to an enormous soul in the accesses of acute affliction.
"Shock to the system," observed Miss Bindler. "I had an Arab once, from the Crabbet Park stud; it was like the Duchess—behaved just like that in sudden cold. Give her mustard." And she returned to the "Pink Un."
"An application of aspic on the left shoulder must be trying," piped Lady Drake.
The Duke said nothing; but as he looked towards Mr. Bush he appeared to be stripped of the tinsel. The pantaloon was merged in the husband. His expression was like the third act of a melodrama.