“Coming here?—­Barrington?  Hullo, I wonder what’s up?”

“He proposed himself, Oliver says; he’s an old friend.”

“They were at Trinity together.  But he doesn’t really care much about Oliver.  I’m certain he’s not coming here for Oliver’s beaux yeux, or Lady Lucy’s.”

“What does it matter?” cried Lady Niton, disdainfully.

“H’m!—­you think ’em all a poor lot?”

“Well, when you’ve known Dizzy and Peel, Palmerston and Melbourne, you’re not going to stay awake nights worriting about John Ferrier.  In any other house but this I should back Lord Philip.  But I like to make Oliver uncomfortable.”

“Upon my word!  I have heard you say that Lord Philip’s speeches were abominable.”

“So they are.  But he ought to have credit for the number of ’em he can turn out in a week.”

“He’ll be heard, in fact, for his much speaking?”

Bobbie looked at his companion with a smile.  Suddenly his cheek flushed.  He sat down beside her and tried to take her hand.

“Look here,” he said, with vivacity, “I think you were an awful brick to stick up for Miss Mallory as you did.”

Lady Niton withdrew her hand.

“I haven’t an idea what you’re driving at.”

“You really thought that Oliver should have given up all that money?”

His companion looked at him rather puzzled.

“He wouldn’t have been a pauper,” she said, dryly; “the girl had some.”

“Oh, but not much.  No!—­you took a dear, unworldly generous view of it!—­a view which has encouraged me immensely!”

“You!” Lady Niton drew back, and drew up, as though scenting battle, while her wig and cap slipped more astray.

“Yes—­me.  It’s made me think—­well, that I ought to have told you a secret of mine weeks ago.”

And with a resolute and combative air, Bobbie suddenly unburdened himself of the story of his engagement—­to a clergyman’s daughter, without a farthing, his distant cousin on his mother’s side, and quite unknown to Lady Niton.

His listener emitted a few stifled cries—­asked a few furious questions—­and then sat rigid.

“Well?” said Bobbie, masking his real anxiety under a smiling appearance.

With a great effort, Lady Niton composed herself.  She stretched out a claw and resumed her work, two red spots on her cheeks.

“Marry her, if you like,” she said, with delusive calm.  “I sha’n’t ever speak to you again.  A scheming minx without a penny!—­that ought never to have been allowed out of the school-room.”

Bobbie leaped from his chair.

“Is that the way you mean to take it?”

Lady Niton nodded.

“That is the way I mean to take it!”

“What a fool I was to believe your fine speeches about Oliver!”

“Oliver may go to the devil!” cried Lady Niton.

“Very well!” Bobbie’s dignity was tremendous.  “Then I don’t mean to be allowed less liberty than Oliver.  It’s no good continuing this conversation.  Why, I declare! some fool has been meddling with those books!”