“In that case I must positively ask you to go into another room,” returned Despencer, with his best smile. “In your presence I find my better instincts overpower me.” The marchioness leaned back in her chair, and half closed her eyes with an expression of well-bred fatigue. “Please don’t begin to say clever things. I want to talk sensibly.” She reopened her eyes. “You see, I can’t speak to the marquis because--well, he is rather old-fashioned in some of his ideas; so I have to fall back on you.” Despencer slightly shrugged his shoulders. “Lord Severn is certainly a trifle out of date. He belongs to the solid-tire period.” “Exactly!” exclaimed the marchioness, with some eagerness. The next moment she recollected herself and frowned. Even the fireside cat will sometimes protrude its claws from under their velvet caps, and the marchioness was not quite sure that she had not felt a scratch. She frowned beautifully--the marchioness’s frown was celebrated. Then she observed: “Though I think it is extremely impertinent of you to say so. Please to remember that the marquis is my husband.” “Ah! to be sure he is. I apologize. It is so difficult to keep in mind these legal distinctions.” This time the marchioness felt certain she had been scratched. She glanced furtively at her companion, who preserved the composure of entire innocence as he set down his empty teacup on a small ebony stool, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and made himself more at ease by drawing back into his chair and crossing his superbly trousered legs. After a little pause, she asked suddenly: “You know Mr. Hammond?” “No.” The word was spoken with a touch of disdain. “Not know Mr. Hammond! Why, I thought Hammond’s ales were drunk in all the clubs?” “It doesn’t follow that you know a man because you drink his beer. But I have heard of him. Isn’t he rather an outsider?” The marchioness looked indignant. “He is run after by all the best people,” she remonstrated. “Yes, but is he worth it?” returned Despencer. “He is worth two millions,” retorted the marchioness. Despencer sat up in his chair and glanced at her. “Rather a loud kind of man, they tell me,” he observed. “They tell me it is the thing to be loud now,” said his companion. “The sort of man that takes ballet-girls to Richmond?” “The sort of man that every mother in England would welcome as a son-in-law.” Despencer smiled compassionately and leaned back in his chair again. “Oh, quite so. There could be no possible objection to him as a son-in-law. I thought you meant as an acquaintance.” “Don’t be so insolent,” said the marchioness; “but listen. A man like that ought to marry, and to marry well. If he were to fall into the clutches of some vulgar adventuress, I should regard it as a misfortune for society.” “This is very noble of you,” murmured her companion.