“Why?”

“Oh, the usual reason⁠—very good-looking and a regular bad lot. Everyone goes off their head about him.”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes I do,” said Lenox, “and sometimes I think I would like to marry a nice curate and live in the country and grow things in frames.” She paused a minute, and then added, “An Irish curate would be best, and then I should hunt.”

After a minute or two she reverted to her former theme. “There is something queer about Derek. All that family are a bit potty⁠—mad gamblers, you know. In the old days they used to gamble away their wives and their estates, and did most reckless things just for the love of it. Derek would have made a perfect highwayman⁠—debonair and gay, just the right manner.” She moved to the door. “Well, come down when you feel like it.”