‘And there’s my aunt I spoke of, or great aunt, Miss Nicky Maxwell. The best old thing: a beautiful monument of old gentility, and she would give her left hand to help any one of the clan.’
‘She will do. And there’s Mrs. Brown-Smith, Lord Yarrow’s daughter, who married the patent soap man. Elle est capable de tout. A real good woman, but full of her fun.’
‘That will do for the lady patronesses. We must secure them at once.’
‘But won’t the clients blab?’ Logan suggested.
‘They can’t,’ Merton said. ‘They would be laughed at consumedly. It will be their interest to hold their tongues.’
‘Well, let us hope that they will see it in that light.’ Logan was not too sanguine.
Merton had a better opinion of his enterprise.
‘People, if they come to us at all for assistance in these very delicate and intimate affairs, will have too much to lose by talking about them. They may not come, we can only try, but if they come they will be silent as the grave usually is.’
‘Well, it is late, and the whisky is low,’ said Logan in mournful tones. ‘May the morrow’s reflections justify the inspiration of—the whisky. Good night!’
‘Good night,’ said Merton absently.