"Oh, confound your mystic utterances," cried the Master, comically, "do descend from your cloudy heights and tell me what you mean. I gather from your extremely hazy explanation that Lady Errington is young, pretty, and poor, also that she is not a mother. So far so good. Proceed, but for heaven's sake no more epigrams." "I'm afraid the beauty of an epigram is lost on you Macjean?" "Entirely! I am neither a poet nor a student, so don't waste your eloquence on me." "Well, I won't," answered Gartney, smiling. "I'll have pity on your limited understanding and tell you all about Alizon Errington's marriage in plain English." "Do, it will pass the time delightfully until we leave this infernal train.' "Lady Errington, my young friend," said Eustace leisurely, "is what you, with your sinful misuse of the Queen's English, would call 'a jolly pretty woman,' of the age of twenty-five, but I may as well say that she looks much older than that--this is no doubt the peculiar effect of the life she led before her marriage." "On the racket," interposed Otterburn, scenting a scandal. "Nothing of the sort," retorted Gartney, severely. "Lady Errington has led the life of a Saint Elizabeth." "Never heard of her. The worthy Mactab didn't approve of saints, as they savoured too much of the Scarlet Woman." "At present I will not enlighten your ignorance," said Eustace drily, "it would take too long and I might subvert the training of the excellent Mactab which has been such a signal success with you." Otterburn grinned at this fine piece of irony, but offered no further interruption, so Eustace went on with his story. "I knew Lady Errington first--by the way, in saying I know her, I don't mean personally. I have seen her, heard her speak and met her at the houses of friends, but I have never been introduced to her." "Why not?" "I don't know if I can give any particular explanation; she didn't attract me much as Alizon Mostyn, so I did not seek to know her, nor did she ever show any desire to make my acquaintance, so beyond knowing each other by sight we remained strangers, a trick of Fate, I suppose--that deity is fond of irony." "You're becoming epigrammatic again," said Otterburn, warningly, "proceed with the narrative." Eustace laughed, and took up the thread of his discourse without further preamble.