Briggs, left alone, sauntered to a
looking-glass hanging on the wall and studied with some solicitude a
pimple that had recently appeared on his clean-shaven face.
"Mischief!" he soliloquized. "I des-say! Whenever a lot of women gets
together, there's sure to be mischief. Dear creeturs! They love it like
the best Clicquot. Sprightly young pusson is Mamzelle. Knows who's at
the bottom of 'eet,' does she! Well--she's not the only one as knows the
same thing. As long as doors 'as cracks and key'oles, it ain't in the
least difficult to find out wot goes on inside boo-dwars and
drorin'-rooms. And 'ighly interestin' things one 'ears now and
then--'ighly interestin'!"
And Briggs leered suavely at his own reflection, and then resumed the
perusal of his paper. He was absorbed in the piquant, highly flavored
details of a particularly disgraceful divorce case, and he was by no
means likely to disturb himself from his refined enjoyment for any less
important reason than the summons of Lord Winsleigh's bell, which rang
so seldom that, when it did, he made it a point of honor to answer it
immediately, for, as he said--
"His lordship knows wot is due to me, and I knows wot is due to
'im--therefore it 'appens we are able to ekally respect each other!"
CHAPTER XXII.
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