Hitherto he had been aware that the end was inevitable; but without actually visualising it. He had frequently thought about the time when everything would be—well, ended; yet somehow he seemed now to realise for the first time facts as they were. This, then, was the end. Folkestone had been just an episode, a nine days' wonder. She
"That's the third time you have failed in your social duty, Richard," said Drewitt, reproachfully, as he lifted his hat. "That was Lady Peggy Bristowe."
"Damn Lady Peggy Bristowe!" snapped Beresford petulantly.
"Certainly, if you wish it;" and Drewitt relapsed into silence.
"I'm sorry, Drew," said Beresford with a laugh.
"I was afraid she might not approve of you, Dickie," said Drewitt, in a tone that caused Beresford to look at him sharply.
"She! Who?"
"The aunt," was the reply. "Aunts are the very devil; camels are love-birds in comparison," he added as he hailed a taxi. "Now I'll leave you. I've promised Bowen to explain to Lady Peter why vegetarianism seems to encourage polygamous instincts among its votaries," and with a wave of his hand Drewitt entered a taxi and drove off.
Yes, that was it, Beresford mused as he continued down Piccadilly. Mrs. Crisp disapproved of him and he was to be dropped—he was being dropped. Had not Lola refused to see him? Had not Mrs.
