‘Not quite, Lady Renshaw. We are still short of two friends—the Rev. Mr Gaisford and Dr M‘Murdo, whose acquaintance you will doubtless make a little later on.’
‘And that of their wives?’ asked her ladyship languidly with a graceful sweep of her fan.
‘They haven’t any; they are bachelors,’ interposed Miss Gaisford brusquely.
‘O-h. Bachelors are always interesting creatures in the eyes of our sex, Miss Gaisford. But it is possible that the gentlemen in question may be on the eve of changing their condition?’
‘Will this woman’s questions never cease?’ murmured Madame De Vigne to herself.
‘Not at all, Lady Renshaw—not at all,’ responded the vicar’s sister. ‘They know too well when they are well off.’
‘O fie, now, Miss Gaisford! You must not turn traitress to your sex. What are we sent into the world for if not to make the men happy!’
‘It seems like it to any one who reads the daily papers,’ was the grim response.
‘By the way, dear, what has become of Mr Ridsdale?’ asked Madame De Vigne of her sister.
‘He has gone as far as the post-office. He thought that the letter he has been expecting for the last few days might perhaps be waiting there for him.’