He laid down the marquis’s photograph, and placed himself in a chair beside the young woman. She barely raised her head. “Thanks. I will tell my maid what you say. She will be glad of a little encouragement, poor thing!” The marchioness gave a low moan. “Victoria! I hope you are accustomed to the modern girl, Mr. Hammond.” “The modern girl is my particular hobby,” was the grave answer. “I may say that I collect her. I keep an album at home, in which I get young ladies to record their most secret thoughts and yearnings for my especial benefit. It is such interesting reading.” He turned again to the scornful beauty beside him. “Mayn’t I put you in my album?” “I hardly know. I am afraid I should shock you; I am so perfectly depraved,” drawled Victoria. “You would have to keep me apart, like those very select works of which only a hundred copies are printed on hand-made paper and sold by private subscription to scholars.” “Victoria!” There was a note of real distress in the marchioness’s voice. “What are you talking about?” “I dare say Mr. Hammond knows,” was the reply, in the same unmoved tone. “Perhaps Mr. Hammond collects those works as well. They are generally written by young ladies,” Despencer interposed. Hammond turned and looked at him as if a dog had barked. “Yes; but I think I have got a volume of yours on the same shelf, if you are the author of _Fig Leaves_.” Despencer became loftily indifferent. “I remember writing a book with that name when I was a boy. Do people still read it?” “No; but they still look at the illustrations.” The marchioness came to the rescue of her satellite. “Ah! but Mr. Despencer has reformed since then,” she said, with unction. “He is writing a novel in favor of marriage.” “How daring!” Hammond answered. “Of course it will be refused by the libraries.” “Come, I sha’n’t allow you to say that marriage is improper,” said the marchioness, with an earnestness that was slightly clumsy. “We still marry in society.” “You don’t say so!” Hammond pretended to exclaim. “I fancied it had quite gone out. Isn’t it considered a rather middle-class thing to do?” The marchioness refused to be baffled. “How horrid and cynical of you to talk like that! You know that you ought to get married yourself. Society expects it of you.” Hammond shook his head. “My dear marchioness, the views of society are the last thing I think of considering. My life is ordered by the views of Alderman Dobbin.” “Alderman Dobbin? That person you asked me to send a card to? Who is he?”