“I want to ask you something,” said Lady Holme, confidentially. “You go about and hear what they’re saying.”
“And greater nonsense it seems each new season.”
“Nonsense keeps us alive.”
“Is it the oxygen self-administered by an almost moribund society?”
“It’s the perfume that prevents us from noticing the stuffiness of the room. But, Robin, tell me—what is the nonsense of now?”
“Religious, political, theatrical, divorce court or what, Lady Holme?”
He looked at her with a touch of mischief in his dark face, which told her, and was meant to tell her, that he was on the alert, and had divined that she had a purpose in thus pleasantly taking possession of him.
“Oh, the people—nonsense. You know perfectly what I mean.”
“Whom are they chattering about most at the moment? You’ll be contemptuous if I tell you.”
“It’s a woman, then?”