"You _must_ read _Trilby_," cried one of the other women, frowning slightly in the direction of the stage, where an actor was doing his best to break into the general conversation. "It's perfectly ripping, I hear. And there is another book called _Three Men in a Yacht_, or something like that. Have you had it?" "No. Good Lord, what a noisy person he is! One can't hear oneself think, the way he's roaring. _Three Men in a Yacht._ Put that down, too, Bertie. Dear me, how do you find the time to keep up with your reading, my dear? It's absolutely impossible for me. I'm always six months or a year behind--" "Have you read _Brewster's Millions_, Mrs. Corkwright?" timidly inquired a rather up-to-date gentleman. "That isn't a book. It's a play," said Mrs. Millidew. "I saw it ten years ago. There is a ship in it.") * * * * * "I'm not complaining," remarked Lord Temple, smiling down upon the Marchioness, who was seated in front of the fireplace. "I merely announced that the world is getting to be a dreary old place,--and that's all." "Ah, but you made the announcement after a silence of five minutes following my remark that Lady Jane Thorne finds it impossible to be with us tonight." He blushed. "Did it seem as long as that?" he said, penitently. "I'm sorry." "How do you like your new situation?" she inquired, changing the subject abruptly. He gave a slight start. It was an unwritten law that one's daily occupation should not be discussed at the weekly drawing-rooms. For example, it is easy to conceive that one could not be forgiven for asking the Count Pietro Poloni how many nickels he had taken in during the day as Humpy the Organ-grinder. Lord Temple also stared. Was it possible that she was forgetting that Thomas Trotter, the chauffeur, was hanging over the back of a chair in the locker room down-stairs,--where he had been left by a hurried and somewhat untidy Lord Temple? "As well as could be expected," he replied, after a moment. "Mrs. Millidew came in to see me today. She informed me that she had put in her thumb and pulled out a plum. Meaning you, of course." "How utterly English you are, my dear Marchioness. She mentioned a fruit of some kind, and you missed the point altogether. 'Peach' is the word she's been using for the past two days, just plain, ordinary 'peach.' A dozen times a day she sticks a finger almost up against my manly back, and says proudly: 'See my new chauffeur. Isn't he a peach?' I can't see how you make plum out of it." The Marchioness laughed. "It doesn't matter. She dragged me to the window this afternoon and pointed down at you sitting alone in all your splendour. I am afraid I gasped. I couldn't believe my eyes. You won't last long, dear boy. She's a dreadful woman." "I'm not worrying. I shouldn't be out of a situation long. Do you happen to know her daughter-in-law?" "I do," said the Marchioness, frowning.