"
The present viscount was the last and perhaps the least of his race;
yet, because of his name and the lingering charm--like the sad perfume
of _pot-pourri_ clinging to a broken jar--he would have been given the
prodigal's welcome at Monte Carlo (that agreeable pound for lost
reputations) but for one drawback. The stumbling block was the woman he
had made Lady Dauntrey.
In the permanent English colony on the Riviera, with its jewelled
sprinkling of American millionaires and its glittering fringe of foreign
notables, there are a few charming women upon whom depends the fate of
newcomers. These great ladies turned down their thumbs when with
experienced eyes they looked upon Lord Dauntrey's wife, when their
trained ears heard her voice, with its curiously foreign, slightly rough
accent.
Nobody wanted or intended to turn an uncompromising back upon her. Lord
Dauntrey and she could be invited to big entertainments--the mid-season
"squashes" which wiped off boring obligations, paid compliments quickly
and easily, and pleased the outer circles of acquaintanceship. But for
intimate things, little luncheons and little dinners to the elect, she
would not "do"; which was a pity--because as a bachelor Lord Dauntrey
might have been furbished up and made to do quite well. As things stood,
the best that could happen to the pair, if they were found to play
bridge well, was to be asked to the bridge parties of the great; while
for other entertainments they would have to depend on outsiders to whom
a title was a title, no matter how tarnished or how tattered.
Pages:
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224