“Well, dear,” he said, addressing his wife, “and what have you been doing with yourself all this time?”

“Mourning for you, Geoffrey, and enjoying myself exceedingly in the intervals.  We have had a delightful time, have we not, Mr. Dunstan?  Mr. Dunstan has also been staying at the Hall, you know.”

“How could it be otherwise when you were there, Lady Honoria?” answered the Saint in that strain of compliment affected by such men, and which, to tell the truth, jarred on its object, who was after all a lady.

“You know, Geoffrey,” she went on, “the Garsingtons have re-furnished the large hall and their drawing-room.  It cost eighteen hundred pounds, but the result is lovely.  The drawing-room is done in hand-painted white satin, walls and all, and the hall in old oak.”

“Indeed!” he answered, reflecting the while that Lord Garsington might as well have paid some of his debts before he spent eighteen hundred pounds on his drawing-room furniture.

Then the Saint and Lady Honoria drifted into a long and animated conversation about their fellow guests, which Geoffrey scarcely tried to follow.  Indeed, the dinner was a dull one for him, and he added little or nothing to the stock of talk.

When his wife left the room, however, he had to say something, so they spoke of shooting.  The Saint had a redeeming feature—­he was somewhat of a sportsman, though a poor one, and he described to Geoffrey a new pair of hammerless guns, which he had bought for a trifling sum of a hundred and forty guineas, recommending the pattern to his notice.

“Yes,” answered Geoffrey, “I daresay that they are very nice; but, you see, they are beyond me.  A poor man cannot afford so much for a pair of guns.”

“Oh, if that is all,” answered his guest, “I will sell you these; they are a little long in the stock for me, and you can pay me when you like.  Or, hang it all, I have plenty of guns.  I’ll be generous and give them to you.  If I cannot afford to be generous, I don’t know who can!”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Dunstan,” answered Geoffrey coldly, “but I am not in the habit of accepting such presents from my—­acquaintances.  Will you have a glass of sherry?—­no.  Then shall we join Lady Honoria?”

This speech quite crushed the vulgar but not ill-meaning Saint, and Geoffrey was sorry for it a moment after he had made it.  But he was weary and out of temper.  Why did his wife bring such people to the house?  Very shortly afterwards their guest took his leave, reflecting that Bingham was a conceited ass, and altogether too much for him.  “And I don’t believe that he has got a thousand a year,” he reflected to himself, “and the title is his wife’s.  I suppose that is what he married her for.  She’s a much better sort than he is, any way, though I don’t quite make her out either—­one can’t go very far with her.  But she is the daughter of a peer and worth cultivating, but not when Bingham is at home—­not if I know it.”