"You had a little run with her in town. Everybody had their eyes on you, as you're aware. And when the Duchess told me she was coming, I'd half a mind to write and put you off—fact! This is not a house in which even tacit encouragement can be offered to a dalliance with crime. Not"—the Duke puffed at his pipe—"not that she's half a bad sort of girl. She's clever. Very pretty. And she's got a way about her which plays havoc with a man."
"Much obliged to you, I'm sure."
"What do you mean?"
"For saying a good word for my wife."
"Your wife?"
"Mrs. Thomas Stanham—née Cullen."
"Tommy!—You don't mean it!"
"You can bet your pile I do,—and then safely go one better. I've got a copy of the marriage certificate in my pocket, and I rather fancy that she's got the original document in hers."
"You—young blackguard!"
"Sort of cousin of yours, aint I, Datchet? It's all in the family, you know. Blackguard, and all."