The red-haired judge, with straw hat and Mephistophelean limp, was there, looking like an Offenbach villain out for a spree.  After being effusively greeted by the host—­they understood one another perfectly—­and forced to eat a quantity of some pink-looking stuff which he could not resist although knowing it would disagree with him, His Worship, left to his own devices, hobbled along in pursuit of his new friend Muhlen.  He found him, and was soon relating succulent anecdotes of his summer holidays—­anecdotes, all about women, which Muhlen tried to cap with experiences of his own.  The judge always went to the same place—­Salsomaggiore, a thermal station whose waters were good for his sore legs.  He described to Muhlen how, in jaunty clothes and shining shoes, he pottered about its trim gardens, ogling the ladies who always ogled back; it was the best fun in the world, and sometimes—!  Mr. Malipizzo, for all his incredible repulsiveness, posed as an ardent and successful lover of women.  No doubt it cost money.  But he was never at a loss for that commodity; he had other sources of revenue, he hinted, besides his wretched official salary.

Wandering along arm in arm, they passed various contingents of the Russians, male and female, whose scarlet blouses shone brightly under the variegated globes of light.  These exotics were happy as children, full of fun and laughter; none more so than the young giant Krasnojabkin, whose name had been coupled by scandalmongers with that of Madame Steynlin.  An admiring audience had gathered around him while he performed a frenzied cancan in an open moonlit space; he always danced when he had enough to drink.  The judge looked on with envy.  It sickened him to realize that those far-famed luncheons and dinners of Madame Steynlin were being devoured by a savage like this.  And the money he doubtless extracted from her!  Presently a loud guffaw from some bosky thicket announced that the friends had been joined by the Financial Commissioner for Nicaragua.  The Trinity was complete.  They were always together, those three, playing cards at the Club or sipping lemonade and vermouth on the terrace.

“Oh, Mr. Keith,” said the Duchess in her sweetest accents, “do you know of what this entertainment makes me think?”

“Shall I guess?”

“Nothing of the kind!  It makes me think that it is very, very wrong of a man like you to be a bachelor.  You want a wife.”

“To want a wife, Duchess, is better than to need one.  Especially if it happens to be only your neighbour’s.”

“I am sure that means something dreadful!”

Don Francesco broke in: 

“Tell me, Keith, how about your wives?  What have you done with them?  Is it true that you sold them at various Oriental ports?”

“They got mislaid somehow.  All that was before my Great Renunciation.”

“Is it true that you kept them locked up in different parts of London?”