"What tricks? What does she mean by tricks?"
"Oh, I suppose she meant any of his blackguardly philandering. There isn't a woman living on whom he is afraid to try his hatchet-faced blandishments."
Quarren dropped back into the depths of his arm-chair. Presently his rigid muscles relaxed. He said coolly:
"I don't think Langly Sprowl is likely to misunderstand Mrs. Leeds."
"That depends," said Westguard. "He's a rotten specimen, even if he is my cousin. And he knows I think so."
A few minutes later O'Hara sauntered in. He had been riding in the Park and his boots and spurs were shockingly muddy.
"Who is this Sir Charles Mallison, anyway?" he asked, using the decanter and then squirting his glass full of carbonic. "Is it true that he's goin' to marry that charmin' Mrs. Leeds? I'll break his bally Sassenach head for him! I'll——"
"The rumour was contradicted in this morning's paper," said Quarren coldly.
O'Hara drank pensively: "I see that Langly Sprowl is messin' about, too. Mrs. Ledwith had better hurry up out there in Reno—or wherever she's gettin' her divorce. I saw Chet Ledwith ridin' in the Park. Dankmere was with him. Funny he doesn't seem to lose any caste by sellin' his wife to Sprowl."
"The whole thing is a filthy mess," growled Westguard; "let it alone."