immensely--she always became as
mute as a mummy. It put me out a bit. I'm not used to that sort of
treatment. When I want to talk about a subject, I am in the habit of
doing so. Lady Victoria is not a bit simple like so many English great
ladies. Perhaps it's the Spanish blood, or perhaps it's because she's so
_blasee_. They _do_ tell stories! I never heard any received woman
accused of having had quite so many--well, at least in this town, when a
woman is openly larky she soon finds herself on the north side of the
fence. There was my Lady Victoria hobnobbing with all the royalties at
Homburg. But what interested me most was her attitude to Sir Cadge
Vanneck--"

"What?" Isabel sat erect. "Has Sir Cadge Vanneck returned from Africa? I
thought something besides ill health was detaining her. Do you think
they will marry? I don't know whether Mr. Gwynne would like it or not.
He looks forward to her arrival--"

"I can see Lady Victoria on a California ranch! She would yawn her head
off. London is 'the world' in quotation marks. She couldn't, that
seasoned lady, stay out of it six months. But about Sir Cadge--that was
the final mystery. It actually kept me awake one night. You know the
story, how devoted he was for about two years, and then how he ran away
when her husband was killed, for fear he would have to marry her. Nobody
knew exactly how she felt about it, for one thing must be said for the
people of those effete old civilizations: their breeding carries them
through any crisis without the turn of a hair. But the report was that
she showed an inner convulsion in subtle outer vibrations, or people
imagined she did, probably because she'd got to that age where she
couldn't have many illusions left. Then, suddenly, this summer, he
returns, and follows her to Homburg. He is all devotion. She is an
iceberg. And she's gone off dreadfully. I saw her seven years ago at
Covent Garden, and she was the handsomest thing I ever looked at. She's
handsome yet, but her muscles are getting that loose look and her eyes
are bottomless pits of ennui. Save me from being a fashionable
demimondaine. Better go to the deuce and die in a garret. Something
honest in that, anyhow--and more picturesque. There may be something
behind, that we don't know anything about, but in my opinion she is not
the happiest of women; and with such a handsome and agreeable man as Sir
Cadge Vanneck at her feet, she is just an ingrate. We are not here,
already?