She went on: “We are all so wretchedly poor in society now that we can’t afford to lose two millions. Besides, with his money and a seat in Parliament, they are sure to make him a peer.” “I should think that very likely. The House of Lords is the one club in London where you can’t be blackballed.” The marchioness condescended to smile. “How wretchedly jealous and spiteful you are to-day! To come to the point. I have determined to do my duty to society by marrying Victoria to this man.” “Congratulations! Let me see, ought I to call you a Spartan mother, or a Roman one? I really forget.” The marchioness raised her hand in languid remonstrance. “I begged you just now not to be clever. Unfortunately, there is an obstacle in the way.” “Ah! I think I have heard something about a gallant cousin?” Despencer suggested. “No, no. Victoria has far too much sense for that sort of thing. Besides, I don’t allow Gerald here now. No, the obstacle I mean is not a man, but a woman.” “Ah! now I see it is going to be serious. Who is she?” “Belle Yorke.” “Belle Yorke!” Even Despencer’s careful training did not enable him to hide his stupefaction on hearing the name. “The celebrated Belle Yorke?” he asked, staring hard at the marchioness. “The notorious Belle Yorke,” was the scornful answer. “I understand she is all the rage at the music-halls just now, and Mr. Hammond is among her admirers.” “He is not the only one,” said Despencer, dryly. “Why do you look like that?” demanded the marchioness. “Is there some mystery about Belle Yorke?” “Oh no! Oh, dear no! Very little mystery, I should say,” and Despencer smiled. The marchioness detected a history in the smile. “Then there is some scandal?” she asked, eagerly, lowering her voice as people do when they do not wish to be overheard by their conscience. “I felt sure of it. I read in a paper only the other day that all those people on the stage were alike. Ahem! Mr. Despencer--what do people _say_?” Despencer gave another light shrug. He shrugged consummately. Despencer’s shrugs were as celebrated as the marchioness’s frowns. “What do people generally say? It is the usual story: the usual little cottage at Hammersmith, the usual widowed mother, and the usual friend who pays the rent.” The marchioness’s look of horror would have deceived experts. “How utterly depraved and shocking! I never dreamed it was so bad as that! I almost wish you hadn’t told me anything about it. Ahem! Mr. Despencer--what do they say is the friend’s name?” “Oh, really!” For a moment Despencer looked startled, then he smiled queerly. “That is not at all a nice question. I really don’t think you ought to ask me that. I have such a dislike for scandal.” “So have I, except when I am listening to it in the interest of propriety,” was the firm answer. “I insist on knowing the friend’s name.” “Well, I have heard the lease is in the name of a Mr. Brown.” “Brown? Nonsense! That must be an assumed name.”