Lady Loughton sank back in her easy-chair, and turned as white as she had been red before. "Water," she said, faintly, pointing to a carafe that stood upon a side-table. Mr. Flicker was by her side in a moment. When she had drunk a little water, he said, "Shall I ring the bell for your maid?"
"No. I shall be better presently. I hate having a fuss made about trifles." Then, after a moment or two of silent thought, she said suddenly, "Flicker, that man"--pointing to Mr. Fildew with her fan "is either John Marmaduke Lorrimore or Beelzebub!"
Mr. Flicker rubbed his chilly hands together and bowed low--very low. Whether the bow was intended for the Earl of Loughton or for the Prince of Darkness was best known to himself.
"I am sorry, my lord," he said, "that with a recent melancholy tragedy still fresh in my memory, I cannot congratulate your lordship as I should like to have done on your accession to so distinguished a title."
"You are not a bit like a Lorrimore," broke in her ladyship, in the abrupt way which was habitual with her.
"And yet you used to say that I had more of a Lorrimore look than even your own son had."
"It seems impossible that you can ever have been that long-haired, fair-skinned boy whom I used to nurse and spoil."
"And box and scold--don't forget that, madam. I have fought with wild beasts at Ephesus since those days, and there's little left of me but a wreck."
"What are your means of living?"
"I have a private income of one pound per week."