“The poem was by a friend of mine,” said Lady Dunstable, coldly.  “I read it to you to see how it sounded.  But I thought it poor stuff.”

“How unkind of you!  The man who wrote it says he lives upon your friendship.”

“That, perhaps, is why he’s so thin.”

Sir Luke laughed again.

“To be sure, I saw the poor man—­after you had talked to him the other night—­going to Dunstable to be consoled.  Poor George! he’s always healing the wounds you make.”

“Of course.  That’s why I married him.  George says all the civil things.  That sets me free to do the rude ones.”

“Rachel!” The exclamation came from the plump lady opposite, who was smiling broadly, and showing some very white teeth.  A signal passed from her eyes to those of Doris, as though to say “Don’t be alarmed!”

But Doris was not at all alarmed.  She was eagerly watching Lady Dunstable, as one watches for the mannerisms of some well-known performer.  Sir Luke perceived it, and immediately began to show off his hostess by one of the sparring matches that were apparently frequent between them.  They fell to discussing a party of guests—­landowners from a neighbouring estate—­who seemed to have paid a visit to Crosby Ledgers the day before.  Lady Dunstable had not enjoyed them, and her tongue on the subject was sharpness itself, restrained by none of the ordinary compunctions.  “Is this how she talks about all her guests—­on Monday morning?” thought Doris, with quickened pulse as the biting sentences flew about.

...  “Mr. Worthing?  Why did he marry her?  Oh, because he wanted a stuffed goose to sit by the fire while he went out and amused himself....  Why did she marry him?  Ah, that’s more difficult to answer.  Is one obliged to credit Mrs. Worthing with any reasons—­on any subject?  However, I like Mr. Worthing—­he’s what men ought to be.”

“And that is—?” Doris ventured to put in.

“Just—­men,” said Lady Dunstable, shortly.

Sir Luke laughed over his cigarette.

“That you may fool them?  Well, Rachel, all the same, you would die of Worthing’s company in a month.”

“I shouldn’t die,” said Lady Dunstable, quietly.  “I should murder.”

“Hullo, what’s my wife talking about?” said a bluff and friendly voice.  Doris looked up to see a handsome man with grizzled hair approaching.

“Mrs. Meadows?  How do you do?  What a beautiful evening you’ve brought!  Your husband and I have been having a jolly talk.  My word!—­he’s a clever chap.  Let me congratulate you on the lectures.  Biggest success known in recent days!”

Doris beamed upon her host, well pleased, and he settled down beside her, doing his kind best to entertain her.  In him, all those protective feelings towards a stranger, in which his wife appeared to be conspicuously lacking, were to be discerned on first acquaintance.  Doris was practically sure that his inner mind was thinking—­“Poor little thing!—­knows nobody here.  Rachel’s been scaring her.  Must look after her!”