“Who is that with Reggie Farwell?” Ethel Wing asked.
“It's the Farrenden girl,” replied Mr. Cuthbert, whose business it was to know everybody. “Chicago wheat. She looks like Ceres, doesn't she? Quite becoming to Reggie's dark beauty. She was sixteen, they tell me, when the old gentleman emerged from the pit, and they packed her off to a convent by the next steamer. Reggie may have the blissful experience of living in one of his own houses if he marries her.”
The fourth at the table was Ned Carrington, who had been first secretary at an Embassy, and he had many stories to tell of ambassadors who spoke commercial American and asked royalties after their wives. Some one had said about him that he was the only edition of the Almanach de Gotha that included the United States. He somewhat resembled a golden seal emerging from a cold bath, and from time to time screwed an eyeglass into his eye and made a careful survey of Mrs. Grenfell's guests.
“By George!” he exclaimed. “Isn't that Hugh Chiltern?”
Honora started, and followed the direction of Mr. Carrington's glance. At sight of him, a vivid memory of the man's personality possessed her.
“Yes,” Cuthbert was saying, “that's Chiltern sure enough. He came in on Dicky Farnham's yacht this morning from New York.”
“This morning!” said Ethel Wing. “Surely not! No yacht could have come in this morning.”
“Nobody but Chiltern would have brought one in, you mean,” he corrected her. “He sailed her. They say Dicky was half dead with fright, and wanted to put in anywhere. Chiltern sent him below and kept right on. He has a devil in him, I believe. By the way, that's Dicky Farnham's ex-wife he's talking to—Adele. She keeps her good looks, doesn't she? What's happened to Rindge?”
“Left him on the other side, I hear,” said Carrington. “Perhaps she'll take Chiltern next. She looked as though she were ready to. And they say it's easier every time.”
“C'est le second mari qui coute,” paraphrased Cuthbert, tossing his cigar over the balustrade. The strains of a waltz floated out of the windows, the groups at the tables broke up, and the cotillon began.