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"He ought to do that," said Mrs. Brookenham—"since he wholly lives on him."

"Lord Petherton—on Mr. Mitchett?" The Duchess stared, but rather in amusement than in horror. "Why, hasn't he a—property?"

"The loveliest. Mr. Mitchett's his property. Didn't you KNOW?" There was an artless wail in Mrs. Brookenham's surprise.

"How should I know—still a stranger as I'm often rather happy to feel myself here and choosing my friends and picking my steps very much, I can assure you—how should I know about all your social scandals and things?"

"Oh we don't call THAT a social scandal!" Mrs. Brookenham inimitably returned.

"Well, if you should wish to you'd have the way I tell you of to stop it. Divert the stream of Mr. Mitchett's wealth."

"Oh there's plenty for every one!"—Mrs. Brookenham kept up her tone. "He's always giving us things—bonbons and dinners and opera-boxes."

"He has never given ME any," the Duchess contentedly declared.

Mrs. Brookenham waited a little. "Lord Petherton has the giving of some. He has never in his life before, I imagine, made so many presents."