"That's what everyone wants to know," replied Marton eagerly, "he picked her up down in the country somewhere, but she's got no pedigree--no money, no talents--nothing but personal beauty." "Which is worth all the rest put together, to a woman," interrupted Ellersby cynically. "What is she like?" The Town-crier reeled off an auctioneer-like description at once. "Tall, fair, blue eyes, beautiful complexion, magnificent figure, and the devil's own temper." "Nice set of qualifications, especially the latter," murmured Ellersby. "Balscombe fond of her?" "Hey! oh yes--madly! won't let her out of his sight, but he had to to-night as he's off down to his place in Berkshire on business, tried to make her ladyship come to but she wouldn't because of this dance--good Lord--fancy a dance at this time of the year!--but Kerstoke's wife was always slightly cracked!" "Does Lady Balscombe reciprocate her husband's adoration?" Marton raised his eyebrows, rubbed his hands and leered significantly. "Not exactly! hey!" he replied chuckling. "Calliston is first favourite there." "Eh!--the deuce--I thought he was in love with old Balscombe's ward, Miss Penfold." "So he is--but he makes love to the wife just to keep his hand in--I wouldn't be surprised if it ended in the Divorce Court." "Well you are generally right in your surmises," retorted Ellersby, "but what would Miss Penfold say to that?" "Hey! oh, she'd be glad," replied Marton, "bless you she cares more for Myles Desmond's little finger than she does for the whole body of Calliston." "Oh I know Myles," said Ellersby promptly, "a rattling good fellow, was with him at Cambridge but we somehow never hit it off--trying to make a fortune by his pen I hear." "Yes! and hasn't made a penny yet, so he acts as secretary to his cousin Lord Calliston--he's next heir to the title you know, hey!" "Much chance he'll have of it," replied Ellersby, contemptuously. "Calliston's sure to marry and have heirs, unless he kills himself in the meantime with drink--but, to revert to our former conversation--the Balscombe ménage seems slightly mixed." "Hey! rather--it stands this way," explained Marton, eagerly; "Balscombe's jealous of his wife on account of Calliston--Lady B. is jealous of Calliston on account of Miss Penfold, and that young lady does not care two straws for the whole lot of them in comparison to Myles Desmond." "Sounds like the second act of a French play," murmured Ellersby, yawning. "Well, when I see Lady Balscombe, I'll give you my opinion of her looks; meantime, you must be dry after all that talking, so come and have a drink." "Where are you stopping?" asked Marton, as they went to the supper-room. "Guelph Hotel, Jermyn Street," said Ellersby, "only for a few days till I get my rooms fixed up; I've brought such a lot of things home that my chambers look like an old curiosity shop. What are you having?"