“I expect there would be two words to the bargain. Dudley is in no hurry; he knows his value, and that he could marry almost any girl in England. Perhaps he may take it into his head to marry you! I’m sure your father would fall in with that arrangement.” “And what about _me_?” “Oh, you! It would be like a political marriage; you’d have to consider yourself highly honoured. He is the most fastidious creature I’ve ever seen.” “Tell me some more about him,” urged Joseline, suddenly sinking on to the big white rug, and clasping her arms around her knees. “Yes, with pleasure, if you will wait till I light a fresh cigarette.” “But you have smoked two already,” remonstrated her companion. “Oh, that’s nothing”--carelessly striking a match. “Why, mother smokes dozens a day, although the doctors have forbidden her to smoke at _all_, she has such a weak heart; and they declare she will kill herself, but she does not believe them. As for Dudley, he has been in the army--the Duke’s Lancers; he was out in South Africa, and got enteric, and nearly died; he is awfully faddy about his health, and takes a real interest in his tongue and his temperature; then, he is shockingly flattered and run after, for, besides being heir to the pater, he has a big property in mines, which, needless to say, he never goes near; he is supposed to have tremendous taste in some ways, and sets fashions--he was the first man to wear a silk muffler with the point outside, and to lunch at his club on bread and milk. Now I hear that bread and milk is the rage!” “And what else does he do besides eating slops?” “Oh, he travels, and motors, and shoots, and sleeps, and nurses himself, and says nasty, cynical things--and sometimes does kind ones. He is rather decent--the earl likes him; by all the laws of propriety he ought to hate his heir, but they get on capitally; they neither of them talk much; they just sit and smoke, or walk and smoke. Dudley is accustomed to be talked to and amused; you see, he is a great catch.” “Does he flirt, or play, as you call it?” “Yes; but only with married women.” Joseline stared; her face expressed shame and disapproval. “Oh, my dear little lambkin, it’s all right. No scandal! Just a few dresses, and a kiss or two.” “I don’t understand.” “No, but you will, darling. Now tell me, between ourselves, have you ever had a real lover?” No answer. Joseline’s eyes fell, and her colour rose. “Look here, we will exchange experiences. I will tell you my secrets; you shall reveal yours. Come now; has a man ever kissed you?” Joseline’s colour increased, and crept up to her temples. “Ah, ha! I see! Oh, your face is a shocking telltale!” “Then it’s telling a big lie!” she protested with energy. “It looks to me like the truth. _Some one_ has kissed you. Come now, own up!” “If I do, you will swear”--and she rose to her knees, and leant against the sofa--“to keep my secret?” “Yes, I swear--a million times over!”