[Ignoring the second sentence and pouncing on the admission.] Then what have you got to complain of?
Catherine.
I dare say my mother knows what half London is chattering about.
Etchingham.
Well, Angela?
Lady Francis.
Oh, my dear, I hoped it was idle gossip. A man as much in the public eye as George Winter—the most prominent financier of the moment—is certain to be talked about.
Etchingham.
I suppose he’s been flirting with two or three pretty women.
Lady Francis.