“’Pon honour, Craven, ’tis gospel truth,” gasped Pink-and-White.
“Better send for a doctor then. If he tries to tell the truth for once he’ll strangle,” suggested Selwyn whimsically to March.
“Spit it out then!” bullied Craven coarsely.
“Oh, Lard! Your roughness gives me the flutters, Sir James. I’m all of a tremble. Split me, I can’t abide to be scolded! Er— Well, then, ’twas a Welsh widow they fought about—name of Gwynne and rich as Crœsus—old enough to be a grandmother of either of ’em, begad! Volney had first claim and Montagu cut in; swore he’d marry her if she went off the hooks next minute. They fought and Montagu fell at the first shot. Next day the old Begum ran off with her footman. That’s the story, you may depend on’t. Lud, yes!”
“You may depend on its being wrong in every particular,” agreed Lady Di coolly. “You’d better tell the story, ’Toinette. They’ll have it a hundred times worse.”
“Oh Lard! Gossip about my future husband. Not I!” giggled that lively young woman.
“Don’t be a prude, miss!” commanded the Dowager Countess sharply. “’Tis to stifle false reports you tell it.”
“Slidikins! An you put it as a duty,” simpered the young beauty. “’Twould seem that—it would appear—the story goes that— Do I blush?—that Sir Robert— Oh, let Lady Di tell it!”
Lady Di came to scratch with the best will in the world.
“To correct a false impression then; for no other reason I tell it save to kill worse rumours. Everybody knows I hate scandal.”