‘It is very funny!’ she said half aloud, ‘and perhaps the funniest thing of all is that I should never have thought it of him!’ ‘What did you say, Delicia?’ asked Mr Cavendish, bending down towards her. Delicia smiled. ‘Nothing!’ she replied. ‘I was talking to myself, which is a bad habit. I saw Will just now; he’s in the arena somewhere. I expect he’s not best pleased to see me here.’ ‘Well, he’s here himself often enough,’ retorted Mr Cavendish; ‘at least, if one is to believe what people say.’ ‘Ah, but one must never believe what people say,’ answered Delicia, still smiling quite radiantly. ‘The majority of mankind tell more lies than truths; it suits their social customs and conveniences better. May we go now?’ ‘Willingly,’ and the Cavendishes rose at once. ‘Shall we look for Lord Carlyon?’ ‘Oh, no; there is such a crowd, we should never find him. He will probably go home in a hansom.’ They left the hall; and Delicia, who had placed her carriage at the service of her friends that night, took them back in it to their own door. ‘You haven’t told us what you think of La Marina,’ said Mrs Cavendish, smiling, when they were bidding each other good-night. ‘Were you disappointed in her?’ ‘Not at all,’ Delicia answered tranquilly; ‘she is an admirable dancer. I never expected her to be anything more than that.’ ‘Numbers of men have quite lost their heads about her,’ observed Mr Cavendish, as he stood on the pavement outside his house and looked in at Delicia, where she sat in her carriage shadowed from the light. ‘Somebody told me the other day she had more jewels than a queen.’ ‘No doubt,’ responded Delicia, carelessly; ‘She is a toy, and the only chance she has of not being broken is to make herself expensive. Good-night!’ She waved her hand, and was driven off. Mr and Mrs Cavendish entered their own quiet house, and in the semi-lighted hall looked at each other questioningly. ‘It is no use dropping any more casual hints,’ said Mr Cavendish, almost crossly; ‘she doesn’t take them.’ ‘I don’t think she’ll ever believe a word against Carlyon,’ responded his wife; ‘and old friends as we are, we should only offend her if we speak out and tell her all we hear. It is no use making mischief.’ ‘It is no use speaking truth, you mean,’ observed Mr Cavendish. ‘What a singular thing it is that one can never be honest in society without offending somebody!’