He's too old."

"Old?" repeated Mrs. Friend, with astonishment.

"Well, I don't mean he's decrepit! But he's forty-four if he's a
day--more than double my age. Did you notice that he's a little lame?"

"No!"

"He is. It's very slight--an accident, I believe--somewhere abroad. But
they wouldn't have him for the Army, and he was awfully cut up. He used
to come and sit with Mummy every day and pour out his woes. I suppose she
was the only person to whom he ever talked about his private affairs--he
knew she was safe. Of course you know he is a widower?"

Mrs. Friend knew nothing. But she was vaguely surprised.

"Oh, well, a good many people know that--though Mummy always said she
never came across anybody who had ever seen his wife. He married her when
he was quite a boy---abroad somewhere--when there seemed no chance of his
ever being Lord Buntingford--he had two elder brothers who died--and she
was an art student on her own. An old uncle of Mummy's once told me that
when Cousin Philip came back from abroad--she died abroad--after her
death, he seemed altogether changed somehow. But he never, _never_ speaks
of her"--the girl swayed her slim body backwards and forwards for
emphasis--"and I wouldn't advise you or anybody else to try. Most people
think he's just a bachelor. I never talk about it to people--Mummy said I
wasn't to--and as he was very nice to Mummy--well, I don't. But I thought
you'd better know. And now I think we'd better dress."