The interruption came from Despencer. If he threw in the remark with the hope of propitiating Lady Victoria it was a failure. That young lady took not the slightest notice. Her mother glared at the traitor for an instant, and continued as though he had not spoken.
“It is high time you made up your mind. Now, there is Mr. Hammond, who has promised to come here this afternoon. He has been paying you attentions for some time. You can’t say anything against him.”
Victoria had changed color slightly at the mention of this name. But she responded, in the same tone of languid indifference:
“I have nothing to say against him, except that so far his intentions have not been very oppressive. He has danced with me three times, and he once peeled me an orange, but you can hardly found a breach of promise case on that.”
“I’m not sure,” ventured the unabashed Despencer. “I fancy something might be made out of the orange.”
Before the marchioness could proceed with her lecture, the door opened, and the voice of the machine announced, “Mr. Hammond!”
“Bother the man!” muttered the marchioness, impatiently, as she rose to receive him. “He is a quarter of an hour too soon. This is so good of you!” she exclaimed, in an altered voice, as the form of the visitor appeared in the doorway.
Mr. Hammond entered.
About his personal appearance there was nothing remarkable. It is bad form to look remarkable, and much of John Hammond’s life had been devoted to avoiding everything in the way of bad form. His attire was in every respect a perfect replica of that of any other hundred men to be met between Waterloo Place and Hyde Park Corner of an afternoon in the London season. He was clean-shaven, and his clear-cut features were those of an able man, not yet entered upon middle age, who has been accustomed to have the world at his feet, and whose only anxieties have been caused to him by his own ambition.
John Hammond was a favorable representative of the class which is gradually replacing the last remains of our feudal aristocracy. The Hammond fortune had been created by his father, so that he was not a self-made man. In the sense in which the word is used to-day, he was undoubtedly a gentleman. He had been educated at the best public school—that is to say, the most expensive—in England, and in the most fashionable college of the most fashionable university. He had been in the best set, both at school and at college, an advantage which his smartness as a wicket-keeper and his inherited millions perhaps contributed about equally to procure. He had taken a good degree; he now took a cold bath every morning, rode to hounds, and sat in the House of Commons as a Conservative.