Thompson, did I eat any dinner at all?
Thompson.
[Stolidly.] Soup, sir.
Fouldes.
I remember looking at it.
Thompson.
Fish, sir.
Fouldes.
I trifled with a fried sole.
Thompson.
Bouchées à la Reine, sir.
Fouldes.
They have left absolutely no impression upon me.
Thompson.
Tournedos à la Splendide.
Fouldes.
They were distinctly tough, Thompson. You must lodge a complaint in the proper quarter.
Thompson.
Roast pheasant, sir.
Fouldes.
Yes, yes, now you mention it, I do remember the pheasant.
Thompson.
Chocolate ice, sir.
Fouldes.
It was too cold, Thompson. It was distinctly too cold.
Lady Mereston.
My dear Paradine, I think you dined uncommonly well.
Fouldes.
I have reached an age when love, ambition and wealth pale into insignificance beside a really well-grilled steak. That'll do, Thompson.
Thompson.
Very well, sir.
[He goes out.
Lady Mereston.
It's too bad of you, Paradine, to devour a substantial meal when I'm eating out my very heart with anxiety.
Fouldes.
It seems to agree with you very well. I've not seen you look better for years.
Lady Mereston.
For heaven's sake be serious and listen to me.
Fouldes.
I started immediately I got your telegram. Pray tell me what I can do for you?
Lady Mereston.
My dear Paradine, Charlie's head over ears in love.
Fouldes.
It's not altogether an unexpected condition for a young man of twenty-two. If the lady's respectable, marry him and resign yourself to being a dowager. If she's not, give her five hundred pounds and pack her off to Paris or London or wherever else she habitually practises her arts and graces.
Lady Mereston.
I wish I could. But who d'you think it is?
Fouldes.
My dear, there's nothing I detest more than riddles. I can imagine quite a number of fair ladies who would look without disdain upon a young marquess with fifty thousand a year.
Lady Mereston.
Lady Frederick Berolles.
Fouldes.
By Jupiter!
Lady Mereston.
She's fifteen years older than he is.
Fouldes.
Then she's not old enough to be his mother, which is a distinct advantage.
Lady Mereston.
She dyes her hair.
Fouldes.
She dyes it uncommonly well.
Lady Mereston.
She paints.
Fouldes.
Much better than a Royal Academician.
Lady Mereston.
And poor Charlie's simply infatuated. He rides with her all the morning, motors with her all the afternoon, and gambles with her half the night. I never see him.
Fouldes.
But why should you think Lady Frederick cares two straws for him?
Lady Mereston.
Don't be ridiculous, Paradine. Every one knows she hasn't a penny, and she's crippled with debts.
Fouldes.
One has to keep up appearances in this world. Life nowadays for the woman of fashion is a dilemma of which one horn is the Bankruptcy Court and the other—dear Sir Francis Jeune.
Lady Mereston.
I wish I knew how she manages to dress so beautifully. It's one of the injustices of fate that clothes only hang on a woman really well when she's lost every shred of reputation.
Fouldes.
My dear, you must console yourself with the thought that she'll probably frizzle for it hereafter.
Lady Mereston.
I hope I'm not wicked, Paradine, but to wear draperies and wings in the next world offers me no compensation for looking dowdy in a Paquin gown in this.
Fouldes.
I surmised she was on the verge of bankruptcy when I heard she'd bought a new motor. And you seriously think Charlie wants to marry her?
Lady Mereston.
I'm sure of it.
Fouldes.
And what d'you want me to do?
Lady Mereston.
Good heavens, I want you to prevent it. After all he has a magnificent position; he's got every chance of making a career for himself. There's no reason why he shouldn't be Prime Minister—it's not fair to the boy to let him marry a woman like that.
Fouldes.
Of
