"
"So he is, but my husband's very particular."
"Oh, I see." And Lord Warburton paused a moment. "How much money has
he got?" he then ventured to ask.
"Some forty thousand francs a year."
"Sixteen hundred pounds? Ah, but that's very good, you know."
"So I think. My husband, however, has larger ideas."
"Yes; I've noticed that your husband has very large ideas. Is he
really an idiot, the young man?"
"An idiot? Not in the least; he's charming. When he was twelve years
old I myself was in love with him."
"He doesn't look much more than twelve to-day," Lord Warburton
rejoined vaguely, looking about him. Then with more point, "Don't
you think we might sit here?" he asked.
"Wherever you please." The room was a sort of boudoir, pervaded by a
subdued, rose-coloured light; a lady and gentleman moved out of it
as our friends came in.
"It's very kind of you to take such an interest in Mr. Rosier,"
Isabel said.
"He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yard long. I
wondered what ailed him."
"You're a just man," said Isabel. "You've a kind thought even for
a rival."
Lord Warburton suddenly turned with a stare.
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