"The prettiest of American duchesses takes her over next spring; and Heaven knows the household cavalry needs green forage.

.

.

Besides, even Jack Ruthven may stand the chance they say he stands if it is true he has made up his mind to sue for his divorce." Neergard wheeled on her; the sweat on his nose had become a bright bead.
"Where did you hear that ?" he asked.
"What?
About Jack Ruthven ?" Her smooth shoulders fluttered her answer.
"You mean it's talked about ?" he insisted.
"In some sets," she said with an indifference which coolly excluded the probability that he could have been in any position to hear what was discussed in those sets.
Again he felt the check of something intangible but real; and the vanity in him, flicked on the raw, peered out at her from his close-set eyes.
For a moment he measured her from the edge of her skirt to her golden head, insolently.
"You might remind your husband," he said, "that I'd rather like to have a card to the Orchil affair." "There is no use in speaking to George," she replied regretfully, shaking her head.
"Try it," returned Neergard with the hint of a snarl; and he took his leave, and his hat from the man in waiting, who looked after him with the slightest twitching of his shaven upper lip.

For the lifting of an eyebrow in the drawing-rooms becomes warrant for a tip that runs very swiftly below stairs.
That afternoon, alone in his office, Neergard remembered Gerald.