"'There's nothing like a plenty,'" quotes the duke, with a dry chuckle at his own wit; indeed he prides himself upon having been rather a "card" in his day, and anything but a "k'rect" one, either. "Yes, there is,--there is propriety," responds the duchess, in an awful tone. "That wouldn't be a bit like it," says the duke, still openly amused at his own humor; after which--thinking it, perhaps, safer to withdraw while there is yet time--he saunters off to the left, and, as he has a trick of looking over his shoulder while walking, nearly falls into Dorian's arms at the next turn. "Ho, hah!" says his Grace, pulling himself up very shortly, and glancing at his stumbling-block to see if he can identify him. "Why, it is you, Branscombe," he says, in his usual cheerful, if rather fussy, fashion. "So glad to see you!--so glad." He has made exactly this remark to Dorian every time he has come in contact with him during the past twenty years and more. "By the by, I dare say you can tell me,--who is that pretty child over there, with the white frock and the blue eyes?" "That pretty child in the frock is my wife," says Branscombe, laughing. "Indeed! Dear me! dear me! I beg your pardon. My dear boy, I congratulate you. Such a face,--like a Greuze; or a--h'm--yes." Here he grows slightly mixed. "You must introduce me, you know. One likes to do homage to beauty. Why, where could you have met her in this exceedingly deficient county, eh? But you were always a sly dog, eh?" The old gentleman gives him a playful slap on his shoulder, and then, taking his arm, goes with him across the lawn to where Georgie is standing talking gayly to Lord Alfred. The introduction is gone through, and Georgie makes her very best bow, and blushes her very choicest blush; but the duke will insist upon shaking hands with her, whereupon, being pleased, she smiles her most enchanting smile. "So glad to make your acquaintance. Missed you on your arrival," says the duke, genially. "Was toiling through the conservatories, I think, with Lady Loftus. Know her? Stout old lady, with feathers over her nose. She always will go to hot places on hot days." "I wish she would go to a final hot place, as she affects them so much," says Lord Alfred, gloomily. "I can't bear her; she is always coming here bothering me about that abominable boy of hers in the Guards, and I never know what to say to her." "Why don't you learn it up at night and say it to her in the morning?" says Mrs. Branscombe, brightly. "_I_ should know what to say to her at once." "Oh! I dare say," says Lord Alfred. "Only that doesn't help me, you know, because _I_ don't." "Didn't know who you were, at first, Mrs. Branscombe," breaks in the duke. "Thought you were a little girl--eh?--eh?"--chuckling again. "Asked your husband who you were, and so on. I hope you are enjoying yourself. Seen everything, eh? The houses are pretty good this year."