'Yes; we hear from him every four hours,' Rosamund rejoined. 'Mention
him to her before me.'

'That's exactly what I was going to tell you to do before me,' said her
husband, smiling.

'Because, Everard, is it not so?--widows . . . and she loves this
gentleman!'

'Certainly, my dear; I think with you about widows. The world asks them
to practise its own hypocrisy. Louise Devereux was married to a pipe;
she's the widow of tobacco ash. We'll make daylight round her.'

'How good, how kind you are, my lord! I did not think so shrewd! But
benevolence is almost all-seeing: You said you spoke to Dr. Shrapnel
twice. Was he . . . polite?'

'Thoroughly upset, you know.'

'What did he say?'

'What was it? "Beauchamp! Beauchamp!" the first time; and the second
time he said he thought it had left off raining.'

'Ah!' Rosamund drooped her head.

She looked up. 'Here is Louise. My lord has had a long conversation
with Mr. Lydiard.'