“So I am to be blackmailed, am I? I have to bribe my brother not to make a street-girl the next Duchess of Colonsay.”
Prince Herbert looked distressed.
“Are you sure that is the right way to go to work with Alistair?” he asked gently. “I have always believed that there was good in him, you know. Perhaps if you tried to appeal to his generosity you might do more than you suppose.”
Alistair’s mother gave the speaker a grateful look.
“Thank you, Bertie. It is very good of you to plead for my poor boy. I think, James dear, you may have been a little harsh with him sometimes.”
“If you were to go to him now,” the Prince pursued, “not to scold him at all, but just to say, ‘Well, old fellow, you’re in a mess; let’s see if I can get you out,’ I think you would find him very different to deal with.”
The elder brother still frowned.
“You don’t know Alistair as well as I do. He would most likely insult me. The last time I wrote to him, nearly a year ago, enclosing his allowance, and pointing out to him how the life he was leading was bound to end, he wrote back to me—my mother saw the note: ‘Dear Jim, your cheques are better than your sermons. Affectionately, Alistair.’”
Prince Herbert by a severe effort checked the smile which rose to his lips.
“After all, he is your brother,” he reminded the aggrieved senior.