“It was so nice having the marchioness here,” she said; “she’s dull and she dresses badly, but people in these parts think no end of her, and, of course, it’s rather a social score to get hold of her. It counts for a good deal to be in her good graces. And now she talks of leaving us at a moment’s notice.”

“Really? That is unfortunate, but I’m sure she’ll be sorry to leave such a charming⁠—”

“She’s not leaving in sorrow,” said the hostess; “no⁠—in anger.”

“Anger?”

“Bobbie Chermbacon called her, to her face, a moth-eaten old hen. That’s not the sort of thing one says to a marchioness, and I told him so afterwards. He said she was only a marchioness by marriage, which is absurd, because, of course, no one is born a marchioness. Anyway, he didn’t apologise, and she says she won’t stay under the same roof with him.”