“Are you better, my dear fellow?” he asked. “You seemed rather out of sorts at dinner.”
“I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all.”
“You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to you. She tells me she is going down to Selby.”
“She has promised to come on the twentieth.”
“Is Monmouth to be there, too?”
“Oh, yes, Harry.”
“He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences.”
“How long has she been married?” asked Dorian.
“An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity, with time thrown in. Who else is coming?”
“Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian.”
“I like him,” said Lord Henry. “A great many people don’t, but I find him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by being always absolutely overeducated. He is a very modern type.”
“I don’t know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to Monte Carlo with his father.”