yachts. On fifty thousand a year these things are impossibilities. But Annandale, believing himself a born financier, believed, too, that the day was not remote when they would solidify into facts. Pending which, Fanny, from her own carriage, distributed to Annette, Juliette and the rest of them such orders as she liked.
It was in this carriage that Marie had seen her with Loftus. Others also saw her. Fanny being a little more than a bride and Loftus a good deal more than a beau, the spectacle caused comment. There were, though, other things that the future had in charge which were to cause more. But among those who beheld the particular spectacle was Fanny’s husband.
Annandale was in a hansom with Mr. Skitt, the broker in whose office he looked over the tape. As Fanny drove by, Annandale raised his hat, then, with a mimic which he meant to be humorously indignant, he shook his stick at Loftus much as though he were saying, “Aha! making up to my wife!”
Loftus entering into the spirit of the jest, ducked his head in feigned alarm.
“That’s a deuced pretty woman,” remarked Mr. Skitt when the carriage had passed.
“It is Mrs. Annandale,” his client returned with some hauteur.
“Oh, beg pardon, I didn’t know.”
“Yes,” Annandale resumed, “and that was Loftus, an old friend of mine.”
“Any relation to the Loftus?” Mr. Skitt, glad that the subject was out of the way, inquired.
“He is the Loftus,” Annandale, now entirely mollified, replied.