"It is an arrangement of a prudential Providence to prevent our affections being set on this world," replies Usk, piously. His wife's only comment on this religious declaration is an impatient twist to the tail of her Maltese dog. Usk proceeds to turn over to her such letters as bore him; they are countable by dozens; the two or three which interest him have been read in the gun-room and put away in an inside pocket. "Mr. Bruce could attend to all these," she says, looking with some disgust at the correspondence. Bruce is his secretary. "He always blunders," says Usk. "Then change him," says his wife; nevertheless she is pleased at the compliment implied to herself. "All secretaries are fools," says Usk, impartially. "Even secretaries of state," says Mr. Wootton, who has the _entrée_ of the boudoir, and saunters in at that moment. "I have some news this morning," he adds: "Coltsfoot marries Miss Hoard." "Never!" exclaims Dorothy Usk. "Perfectly true," says Mr. Wootton. "Both of them staying at Dunrobin, and engagement publicly announced." Lord Coltsfoot is heir to a dukedom; Miss Hoard is the result in bullion of iron-works. "Never!" reiterates Lady Usk. "It is impossible that he can do such a horrible thing! Why, she has one shoulder higher than the other, and red eyes!" "There are six millions paid down," replies Mr. Wootton, sententiously. "What the deuce will Mrs. Donnington say?" asks Usk. "One never announces any marriage," remarks Mr. Wootton, "but there is a universal outcry about what will some lady, married long ago to somebody else, say to it. Curious result of supposed monogamy!" "It is quite disgusting!" says Lady Usk. "Some of those new people are presentable, but she isn't; and Coltsfoot is so good-looking and so young." "It is what the French call an '_alliance très comme il faut_,'" says Usk, from sheer spirit of contradiction. "The dukedom is as full of holes as an old tin pot; she tinkers it up with her iron and gold; and I bet you that your friend Worth will manage to cut Lady Coltsfoot's gowns so that one shoulder higher than the other will become all the rage next season." "Of course you set no store on such a simple thing as happiness," says his wife, with acerbity. "Happiness? Lord, my dear! Happiness was buried with Strephon and Chloe centuries ago! We are amused or bored, we are successful or unsuccessful, we are popular or unpopular, we are somebody or we are nobody, but we are never either happy or miserable." "People who have a heart are still both!" "A heart! You mean spoons!" "What a hideous expression! Strephon and Chloe never used that." "When we have an unfortunate passion now," remarks Mr. Wootton, "we go to Carlsbad. It's only an affair of the liver." "Or the nerves," suggests Usk. "Flirtation is the proper thing: flirtation never hurts anybody: it's like puff-paste, seltzer water, and Turkish cigarettes." "Puff-paste may bring on an indigestion when one's too old to eat it!"