Eversleigh raised his quizzing glass again and surveyed an uncomfortable Rufus Smythe in silence for a long moment.

"Ah," he said with amiable languor, "but you forget the craving of every man to perpetuate his dynasty, my dear fellow. Even I, I find, shudder at the prospect of being the last of my line. Wives, alas, become necessary evils when one's thoughts turn in such a direction."

"Marius!" Lord Horton bounced across the room to clap his friend heartily on the shoulder. "You aren't actually contemplating matrimony, are you, old boy? You? You have so perfected the art of totally ignoring each year's crop of debutantes and freezing out their hopeful mamas, that you would not know how to start choosing, would you, old fellow?"

"Do you have someone in mind, Eversleigh?" Darnley asked gloomily.

"My betrothed has a sister," said the sepulchral voice of Hanley, who still had not moved a muscle as he sat on in his chair. "Not quite so spotty, either."

"Choosing is a simple task," Eversleigh said.

"Eh?" asked Sir Wilfred.

Eversleigh made the supreme effort of pushing himself away from the mantel and strolling over to the sideboard to pour himself more brandy.

"Choosing a carriage is a difficult task," he said as he returned to the group. "One has to consider style, height, springs, upholstery, color. Choosing a horse is even more ticklish. It should take days and much sober consideration. Choosing a wife is simple. If she is young and virgin, why look farther?"

"Spots," muttered Hanley.

"There are plenty without," Eversleigh replied, lowering himself languidly into the nearest chair. "And I have never observed that beauty ensures good performance in bed, anyway, my dear chap."