Her own name of Scales intrigued him.
Mr. Mardon shook his head. "Bought it on her own, after the
husband's time, for a song--a song! I know, because I knew the
original Frenshams."
"You must have been in Paris a long time," said Peel-Swynnerton.
Mr. Mardon could never resist an opportunity to talk about
himself. His was a wonderful history. And Peel-Swynnerton, while
scorning the man for his fatuity, was impressed. And when that was
finished--
"Yes!" said Mr. Mardon after a pause,, reaffirming everything in
general by a single monosyllable.
Shortly afterwards he rose, saying that his habits were regular.
"Good-night,' he said with a mechanical smile.
"G-good-night," said Peel-Swynnerton, trying to force the tone of
fellowship and not succeeding. Their intimacy, which had sprung up
like a mushroom, suddenly fell into dust. Peel-Swynnerton's
unspoken comment to Mr. Mardon's back was: "Ass!" Still, the sum
of Peel-Swynnerton's knowledge had indubitably been increased
during the evening. And the hour was yet early. Half-past ten! The
Folies-Marigny, with its beautiful architecture and its crowds of
white toilettes, and its frothing of champagne and of beer, and
its musicians in tight red coats, was just beginning to be alive--
and at a distance of scarcely a stone's-throw! Peel-Swynnerton
pictured the terraced, glittering hall, which had been the prime
origin of his exceeding foolishness.
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