"Torquilstone's mother was one of the housemaids. The old duke married her before he was twenty-one, and she, fortunately, joined her beery ancestors a year or so afterwards; and then much later he married Robert's mother, Lady Etheldrida Fitz Walter. There is sixteen years between them--Robert and Torquilstone, I mean." "Then what is he _toque_ about blue blood for, with a _tache_ like that?" I asked. "That is just it. He thinks it is such a disgrace that even if he were not a humpback he says he would never marry to transmit this stain to the future Torquilstones--and if Robert ever marries any one without a pedigree enough to satisfy an Austrian prince, he will disown him and leave every sou to charity." "Poor Lord Robert!" I said, but I felt my cheeks burn. "Yes, is it not tiresome for him? So, of course, he cannot marry until his brother's death, there is almost no one in England suitable." "It is not so bad, after all," I said; "there is always the delicious role of the 'married woman's pet,' open to him, isn't there?" and I laughed. "Little cat!" but she wasn't angry. "I told you I only scratched when I was scratched first," I said, as I went out of the room. The angels had started for their walk, and Veronique had to come with me at first to find them. We were walking fast down the path beyond Stanhope Gate, seeing their blue velvet pelisses in the distance, when we met Mr. Carruthers. He stopped and turned with me. "Evangeline, I was so angry with you yesterday," he said. "I very nearly left London and abandoned you to your fate, but now that I have seen you again--" He paused. "You think Paris is a long way off!" I said, innocently. "What have they been telling you?" he said, sternly, but he was not quite comfortable. "They have been saying it is a fine November, and the Stock Exchange is no place to play in, and if it weren't for bridge they would all commit suicide. That is what we talk of at Park Street." "You know very well what I mean. What have they been telling you about me?" "Nothing, except that there is a charming French lady who adores you, and whom you are devoted to--and I am so sympathetic. I like Frenchwomen, they put on their hats so nicely." "What ridiculous gossip! I don't think Park Street is the place for you to stay. I thought you had more mind than to chatter like this." "I suit myself to my company." I laughed, and waited for Veronique, who had stopped respectfully behind. She came up reluctantly. She disapproves of all English unconventionality, but she feels it her duty to encourage Mr. Carruthers. "Should she run on and stop the young ladies," she suggested, pointing to the angels in front. "Yes, do," said Mr. Carruthers, and before I could prevent her she was off. Traitress! She was thinking of her own comfortable quarters at Branches, I know.