She changed the subject of conversation,—­and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, in the privacy of her own apartment, confided to her husband that she really thought Maryllia Vancourt was a little ’off her head’—­just a little.

“Because, really,”—­said Mrs. Courtenay—­“when it comes to harbouring geniuses in one’s own house, it is quite beyond all reason.  I sympathise so much with poor Mrs. Fred!  If Maryllia would only marry Lord Roxmouth, all these flighty and fantastic notions of hers about music and faithful friends and honour and principle would disappear.  I am sure they would!—­and she would calm down and be just like one of us.”

Mr. Bludlip Courtenay stared hard through his monocle.

“Why don’t you talk to her about it?” he said—­“You might do more for Roxmouth than you are doing, Peggy!  I may tell you it would mean good times for both of us if you pushed that affair on!”

Mrs. Courtenay looked meditative.

“I’ll try!”—­she said, at last—­“Roxmouth is to dine here to-morrow night—­I’ll say something before he comes.”

And she did.  She took an opportunity of finding Maryllia alone in her morning-room, where she was busy answering some letters.  Gliding in, without apology, she sank into the nearest comfortable chair.

“We shall soon all be gone from this dear darling old house!” she said, with a sigh—­“When are you coming back to London, Maryllia?”

“Never, I hope,”—­Maryllia answered—­“I am tired of London,—­and if I go anywhere away from here for a change it will be abroad—­ever so far distant!”

“With Lord Roxmouth?” suggested Mrs. Courtenay, with a subtle blink in her eyes.

Maryllia laid down the pen she held, and looked straight at her.

“I think you are perfectly aware that I shall never go anywhere with Lord Roxmouth,”—­she said—­“Please save yourself the trouble of discussing this subject!  I know how anxious you are upon the point—­ Aunt Emily has, of course, asked you to use your influence to persuade me into this detestable marriage—­now do understand me, once and for all, that it’s no use.  I would rather kill myself than be Lord Roxmouth’s wife!”

“But why—­” began Mrs. Courtenay, feebly.

“Why?  Because I know what kind of a man he is, and how hypocritically he conceals his unnameable vices under a cloak of respectability.  I can tolerate anything but humbug,—­remember that!”

Mrs. Courtenay winced, but stuck to her guns.

“I’m sure he’s no worse than other men!”—­she said—­“And he’s perfectly devoted to you!  It would be much better to be Duchess of Ormistoune, than a poor lonely old maid looking after geniuses.  Geniuses are perfectly horrible persons!  I’ve had experience with them.  Why, I tried to bring out a violinist once—­such a dirty young man, and he smelt terribly of garlic—­he came from the Pyrenees—­but he was quite a marvellous fiddler—­and he turned out most ungratefully, and married my manicurist.  Simply shocking!  And as for singers!—­my dear Maryllia, you never seem to realise what an utter little fright that Cicely Bourne of yours is!  She will never get on with a yellow face like that!  And such a figure!”